To find her nest, and see her feed her young,
And vainly did I many hours employ:
All seemed as hidden as a thought unborn;
And where those crumpling fern-leaves ramp among
The hazel’s under-boughs, I’ve nestled down
And watch’d her while she sang; and her renown
Hath made me marvel that so famed a bird
Should have no better dress than russet brown.
Her wings would tremble in her ecstasy,
And feathers stand on end, as ’twere with joy;