It was here, perhaps, that Cowper wrote his poem on a nightingale, that sung with a thorn in her breast, an affecting allusion to the state of his own feelings. There is another of his productions on the same “sweet bird,” whom all poets wait on, which is subjoined by way of conclusion to this brief notice of a bard honoured for his talents, and revered for his love of virtue.
TO THE NIGHTINGALE
Which the author heard sing 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 practised 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 thy song
Beneath a wintry sky.
But thee no wintry skies can harm,
Who only need’st to sing,
To make ev’n January charm,
And ev’ry season Spring.
