Ode to the Nightingales (Part I)

Where are ye gone,
Ye blessed songsters of the leafy grove?
Sad and alone,
When the bright day is done,
I through my garden-grounds untended rove,
Wanting the solace of that song
Which from above,
Like mountain-torrent full and strong,
Came rushing, gushing
In melodious floods,
Through the deep hushing
Of the silent woods;
Sweeping my yielding soul along
Into those far, fond mem'ries it doth love.

Time was ye never fail'd me; night by night
I hung, entranced, upon your pure delight,
All through the later April and the May.

When every other voice
That makes the earth rejoice,
Hush'd into dewy slumber, silent lay,
Leaf-hidden, till the breaking of the day,
Then would I come
Out of my quiet home,
Where all were sleeping, or laid down to rest;
And, hov'ring bird-like round that bow'ry nest,
Praying down blessings on what I loved best,
Would pace each well-known walk,
Familiar with the talk
And fellowship of a few hours ago;

And, by the sweet infection, falling
Into a pleasant, dreamy, dim recalling
Of glances and of utterances dear,
Would feel as if the blessed things were near,
Whose presence is my sunshine all the year,
And thoughts of whom are like rich sunset's glow.

in.

O! then your almost utter'd words,
Ye earth-rejoicing, heav'n-sent birds,
Came like a voice from God, to move
The passion of my soul to love.
And, life within me all astir,
The heart its own interpreter,
I heard unutterable things
Which mortal lips had never spoken,
And drank from the eternal Springs,
Forth from the living rock fresh broken
When struck by that Almighty Hand
Which can its inner life command.
Such wilder'd dreamings!
Bright with golden gleamings
Of old remember'd, happy summer days;
Snatches of voices,
As when youth rejoices,
And merry laughter rings through pleasant ways;
Fragments of years
For ever gone
Beyond the reach of hopes and fears,
Into that far-off land, where lie,
Embalm'd in happy memory,
Their purest and their brightest parts alone,—
Things which can never die,
Partakers of th' eternity
Of mortal's immortality,—

Visions which bring.
In their dim, shadowy hovering,
The confines of the spirit-world so near
To that less real world which men inhabit here,
That they awhile out of themselves do rise
Into the purer ether of those upper skies.

To such sweet musings,
Bright with their confusings
Of time and place, upper and lower air,
Yet having in them all one meaning there-
Just as the glass revolved
Shows broken lights, resolved
Into one picture, perfected and fair: —
To such sweet musings of the soul
Your song, dear birds!
Your almost utter'd words
So gently and so tenderly do lead,
And such sweet fancies do within me breed,
That I, enamour'd of your soft control,
Would gladly be your captive all the night,
And leave dull sleep until the morning's light;
Taking my rest
Of soul and body best
In that fond rapture, which doth lift me quite
Out of my wearied self, through your pure song's delight.

That song!
Which all the copses round prolong
Beneath the dewy, many-twinkling sky,
With echoes crowding in rich harmony,
As if the vaulted chamber made reply.
That gush
Of tuneful melody!
That like a rush
Of summer water-falls, went sweeping by;

And then a hush.
As if to let the list'ning woods, that lie
Entranced around, draw breath; and with a sigh
Utter the dewy fragrance of their joy i
And then that long, low, ling'ring note
That thrills and trembles through the mellow throat,
Pouring the moan
Of its sweet monotone
Into the silence of attentive night: —
Dear voice of sympathetic love!
Which thus its steadfastness would prove
To the fond mate, whose glad employ
Lies in the leafy nest of her delight,
While soft, soul-soothing strains like rose-leaves round her float.

Then, lest his song,
Too tender and too touching, should too long
Shadow her spirit, and too wholly
Enwrap it in the folds of melancholy,
He bursts into such wild excess
Of overflowing happiness,
As if he were intoxicate with joy,
And felt that nothing ever could destroy
That quiet night,
That moon-lit shade,
The soft delight
That doth pervade
The earth, the air, the heav'ns so calm and bright;
But, more than all, that nest so lately made,
In which their mutual loves and hopes are laid.

He sang of Summer! Summer hov'ring near,
On the green threshold of the flow'ry May,
Of leaves unfolding, buds that just appear
Forth-peeping, all impatient of delay,
And wond'ring how much longer they must stay
Ere ling'ring frosts betake themselves away.

He sang of Summer! Summer in the bloom,
The roseate bloom of her imperial pride,
Like a fair woman, filling all the room
Through which she moved, with beauty and perfume,
While every spot she touch'd was glorified;
So filling all the world with the delight
Of her pure, fragrant beauty day and night.

He sang of Summer! Summer far away!
Summer in some delicious southern bay,
"Where olive shades and orange groves
Bend over calm and tideless seas,
And where the heart that Summer loves
Revels in summer-ecstasies.

He sang of Summer! Summer all the year!
And follow'd round the world, where'er it goes, —
Its song perpetual, its perpetual cheer,
Its ever-shadowing leaf and blowing rose —
With every blessing bounteous Heav'n bestows,
Save, haply, that of leisure for repose.

He sang of Summer! Summer with the brood
Of their young love around them on the wing.
Or learning, in the wood's deep solitude,
Note after note, the songs themselves shall sing
When they become the minstrels of the Spring;
Learning in softer climes the tend'rer notes
Which sun-glad hearts pour forth from sun-tuned throats.

He sang, he sang
Till all the woodland round him rang
With the sweet tumult of his minstrelsy,
That shook its notes together, like the clang
Of silver cymbals clashing clear and high;
With dying cadences that would not die,
But that, when seeming hush'd and almost mute,
By passion's over-throbbing pulse subdued,
Breathed forth again, as from some mellow flute,
With the pure freshness of a life renew'd;

Breathed forth that song
Which, losing not its passion deep and strong,
Yet into such pathetic strains
As those in which true love complains,
(Though all the while exulting in its gains,)
Melted away,
Until the tender lay
Breathed half of comfort, more than half of care;
Soft as summer brooklets flowing,
Bubbling over pebbles fair;
Murm'ring, rippling, coming, going,
Out and in and everywhere;
All their fresh'ning love bestowing
On the drowsy woodlands there,
Lying many-tinted, glowing,
In the radiant evening air:
So soft, so bright, so bubbling, and so pure,
Did that long, sighing,sinking, swelling song endure.

Thus wore the night; while from its neighb'ring tower
The village church-clock told the midnight hour.
And twice and thrice again, with drowsy call,
As of some sleepy watchman on his beat
Startling the silence of the sleeping street
With tones familiar, which unheeded fall,
Yet mingle with the frost-work of their dreams;
So twice, and thrice again the iron tongue
Of night broke in my waking dreams among,
"Waking such dreamings, but not waking me,
Nor drawing homeward, till the first faint gleams
Of morning streak'd the orient; then the claim
Of Nature wearied out, and fain to be
Sunk in the sleep of sweet satiety,
Compell'd me in; but not to silence, — there
That gushing flood of music, still the same,
Followed me as I bent my knees in prayer,
And, morning though it was, ask'd nightly care,
Confusing thus the office and the time,
Saying my even-song at matin-prime.
There, as I bow'd my knees to Heav'n and pray'd,
Where the dim night lamp cast its flickering Shade,
That wakeful worshipper was with me too,
And, what he could to help me, he did do.

He sang, and sang,
Till all the little oratory rang
With that sweet symphony.
That, like an organ, became voice for me,
Helping me heav'n-ward with its harmony;
Till all my prayer, and all my praise
Went up by those melodious ways
Into the ears
Of Him
Who, though surrounded by the Cherubim
And Seraphim,
Who ever raise,
Resting not day nor night, their ceaseless hymn,
Yet stoops His heart in tenderness, and hears
The faintest sigh;
E'en to a sparrow's cry
Attentive, through the music of the spheres.