The Nightingale

A mighty bard there was, in joy of youth,
That wont to rove the vernal groves among,
When the green oak puts forth its scalloped tooth,
And daisies thick the darkening fallows throng.
He listen'd oft, whene'er he sought to soothe
A fancied sorrow with a fancied song,
For Philomela's ancient tale of ruth,
And never heard it, all the long night long ;
But heard, instead, so glad a strain of sound,
So many changes of continuous glee,
From lowest twitter, such a quick rebound,
To billowy height of troubled ecstasy —
Rejoice ! he said, for joyfully had he found
That mighty poets may mistaken be.