No Nightingales, or Compensation

Long time I waited for the nightingale,
Befool'd by that dumb coppice; till the dove
And finch descried me watching in the grove,
Poor client of the darkness, worn and pale:
But oh! how often is our frustrate hope
Exchanged by Heaven for unexpected mirth!
Though baulk'd and sleepless, yet I could not mope
'Mid the full matins of the a waken'd earth;
Bold chanticleer, alighting from his perch,
'The night birds play thee false,' he said — and crow'd;
'Welcome to truth and day! ' The lark uprode
And caroll'd. Thus, amid my weary search
For song in bowers of silence, June was born,
And tuneless night exchanged for choral morn.