The nightingale

In wake of Spring, from sunny South I hasten,

The early Summer joys for thee to chasten.

And when the air is fragrant of sweet flowers,

I sing my lays, my lays in leafy bowers.

Sad heart! and should'st thou be o'erwhelm'd with sorrow,

Then come and of my song sweet comfort borrow.

I know the joys of love, its bitter anguish.

My song oft brings relief to hearts that languish.

I am not fair, and yet my songs have power

To soothe the aches of many a painful hour.

Whenever thou unto my song shalt listen

In beechen grove, with tears thine eyes will glisten.

Turn not away thine ear then from my singing,

But let it through thine inmost heart go ringing.

Then it will gently speed thy sweet endeavor

And love will bide within thine heart forever.