To the Nightingale

O Nightingale, best poet of the grove,
That plaintive strain can ne'er belong to thee,
Blest in the full possession: of thy love :
O lend that strain, sweet nightingale, to me !

'Tis mine, alas ! to mourn my wretched fate :
I love a maid who all my bosom charms,
Yet lose my days without this lovely mate ;
Inhuman fortune keeps her from my arms.

You, happy birds ! by nature's simple laws
Lead your soft lives, sustained by nature's fare ;
You dwell wherever roving fancy draws,
And love and song is all your pleasing care :

But we, vain slaves of interest and of pride,
Dare not be blest lest envious tongues should blame :
And hence in vain I languish for my bride —
O mourn with me, sweet bird, my hapless flame.