TO THE NIGHTINGALE, WHICH THE AUTHOR HEARD ON NEW-YEAR'S DAY, 1792.
Whence is it, that amaz'd I hear,
From yonder wither'd spray,
This foremost morn of all the year,
The melody of May?
And why, since thousands would be proud
Of such a favour shown,
Am I selected from the crowd,
To witness it alone?
Sing'st thou, sweet Philomel, to me,
For that I also long
Have practis'd in the groves like thee,
Though not like thee, in song?
Or sing'st thou rather under force
Of some divine command,
Commission'd to presage a course
Of happier days at hand?
Thrice welcome then! for many a long
And joyless year have I,
As thou to-day, put forth my song
Beneath a wintry sky.
But thee no wintry skies can harm,
Who only need'st to sing,
To make e'en January charm,
And ev'ry season spring.
TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.[634]
Weston, March 18, 1792.
My dear Friend,—We are now once more reduced to our dual state, having lost our neighbours at the Hall and our inmate Lady Hesketh. Mr. Rose, indeed, has spent two or three days here, and is still with us, but he leaves us in the afternoon. There are those in the world whom we love, and whom we are happy to see; but we are happy likewise in each other, and so far independent of our fellow mortals as to be able to pass our time comfortably without them:—as comfortably, at least, as Mrs. Unwin's frequent indispositions, and my no less frequent troubles of mind, will permit. When I am much distressed, any company but hers distresses me more, and makes me doubly sensible of my sufferings, though sometimes, I confess, it falls out otherwise; and, by the help of more general conversation, I recover that elasticity of mind which is able to resist the pressure. On the whole, I believe I am situated exactly as I should wish to be, were my situation to be determined by my own election; and am denied no comfort that is compatible with the total absence of the chief of all.
Adieu, my dear friend.
I remain, affectionately yours,
W. C.