A Colony of Nightingales

I placed the mute eggs of the Nightingale
In the warm nest, beneath a brooding thrush;
And waited long, to catch the earliest gush
Of the new wood-notes, in our northern vale;
And, as with eye and ear I push'd my search,
Their sudden music came as sweet to me,
As the first organ-tone to Holy Church,
Fresh from the Angel and St. Cecily;
And, year by year, the warblers still return
From the far south, and bring us back their song,
Chanting their joy our summer groves among,
A tune the merle and goldfinch cannot learn;
While the poor thrush, that hatch'd them, listens near,
Nor knows the rival choir she settled here!