To a Nightingale in Clifden Wood

SAY, sad tenant of the grove,
Whence the pains that now you prove?
Why, within your throbbing breast,
Why is Sorrow still a guest?
Sleeps in death your murder'd mate?
Weep'st thou his melancholy fate?
If 'tis that disturbs thy peace
Spring shall bid thy sorrows cease;
Then thy breast, that heaves in woe,
With Love's bright flame again shall glow.
Yet, sweet mourner, still complain,
Nor, though bless'd, forbear thy strain;
For, sweetly sad thy warblings flow,
And charming is thy song of woe;
As at eve he treads the plain,
Oft it soothes the shepherd swain;
When he seeks the conscious shade,
There to meet the village maid;
He with rapture hears thy lay
Issue from the hawthorn spray;
And with mine unites his praise
Of Philomela's tender lays.