And tun’d her voice to many a merry note,
But indistinct, and neither sweet nor clear.
Her short performance was no sooner tried,
When she I sought, the nightingale, replied:
So sweet, so shrill, so variously she sung,
That the grove echoed, and the valleys rung;
And I so ravish’d with her heavenly note,
I stood entranc’d, and had no room for thought;
But all o’erpower’d with an ecstasy of bliss,
Was in a pleasing dream of Paradise.