Song

Under the oak-tree; near the rill,
Sits my fair maiden at evening still,
Singing her song, her song of love,
Sweetly it warbles through the grove.

The nightingale heard the heavenly tone,
And blended the music with his own:
My ears drink in the wondrous strain,
And my spirit re-echoes the song again.

How oft the zephyrs have brought to me
Delighted, those accents of harmony!
How oft have I blamed the jealous breeze
That scatter’d the music amidst the trees!

Listen awhile, thou nightingale!
Echo the song from hill to vale:
Though hill and vale enraptured be,
Sweeter the music sounds to me!