To the Nightingale

Sing in the forest’s leafy night,
Gentle bird--unnoticed sing;
Sing in Luna’s silver light,
Tones of sorrow echoing.
Tell me why my tears are falling
Like a rivulet--tell me why
Memory, when the past recalling,
Blends thee with the days gone by?
Ah! those hallow’d friends I number,
Who upon earth’s peaceful breast
In death’s tomb of silence slumber!
Green moss decks their place of rest.
All their turfs, sweet flowers adorn them,
I am left alone to mourn them--
Still I mourn them--still regret--
Therefore like a rivulet
Flow my tears--with whom shall I
Now thy sweetest strains enjoy?
Who shall greet the spring with me?
Spring is winter--wanting thee.
Now my soul must bow, subdued,
Life has no vicissitude;
All is dark--my heart is weary--
And the world--all waste and dreary.
Tell me, lovely nightingale,
When thy gentle song will fall
On my grave? for O its breath
Is meet melody for death.