Sonnet III: To a Nightingale

Poor melancholy bird—that all night long
Tell'st to the Moon thy tale of tender woe;
From what sad cause can such sweet sorrow flow,
And whence this mournful melody of song?

Thy poet's musing fancy would translate
What mean the sounds that swell thy little breast,
When still at dewy eve thou leavest thy nest,
Thus to the listening Night to sing thy fate?

Pale Sorrow's victims wert thou once among,
Tho' now released in woodlands wild to rove?
Say—hast thou felt from friends some cruel wrong,
Or died'st thou——martyr of disastrous love?
Ah! songstress sad! that such my lot might be,
To sigh, and sing at liberty——like thee!