TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

Sweet bird, that sing’st away the early hours, Of winters past or coming void of care, Well pleased with delights which present are, Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers; To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers Thou thy Creator’s goodness dost declare, And what dear gifts on thee he did not spare, A stain to human sense in sin that lowers. What soul can be so sick which by thy songs, Attir’d in sweetness, sweetly is not driven Quite to forget earth’s turmoils, spites, and wrongs, And lift a reverent eye and thought to heaven? Sweet artless songster, thou my mind dost raise To airs of spheres, yes, and to angels’ lays.