Who captured Nature’s notes for lovely swains,

And echoed them behind a mountain plough;

And moiled and sang, to prove to Gods above

The charm of earthly singing and of love.

Leave to the soaring minstrel of the sky

Her privilege of song at heaven’s gate;

Leave to the nightingale the charms whereby

She lights the grove and hushes strife and hate.

As great a boon—oh, blessed bird!—is thine,

Gyv’d to the soiling earth, yet singing still divine!