THE NIGHTINGALE.
FROM THE DUTCH.
Prize thou the nightingale,
Who soothes thee with his tale,
And wakes the woods around;
A singing feather, he—a winged and wandering sound:
Whose tender carroling
Sets all ears listening
Unto that living lyre,
Whence flow the airy notes his ecstasies inspire;
Whose shrill, capricious song,
Breathes like a flute along,
With many a careless tone—
Music of thousand tongues, formed by one tongue alone.
O charming creature rare,
Can aught with thee compare?
Thou art all song—thy breast
Thrills for one month o’ th’ year—is tranquil all the rest.
Thee wondrous we may call—
Most wondrous this of all,
That such a tiny throat
Should wake so loud a sound, and pour so loud a note.
Maria Tesselschade Visscher—Born in the 16th century.
Translation of Dr. Bowring.