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! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...GRAND ARMY PLAZA by KAREN SWENSON NEW YORK AT NIGHT by AMY LOWELL TROAS: ACT II. LATTER END OF THE CHORUS by LUCIUS ANNAEUS SENECA HEINE'S GRAVE by MATTHEW ARNOLD TO BARON DE STONNE.....TO FIND HIMSELF BETWEEN by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD OUT OF THE SHADOW by MARGARET FAIRLESS BARBER THE BRIDES' TRAGEDY: ACT 1, SCENE 1 by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES |