An Address to the Nightingale
Then, when Apollo, the bright-locked, hath heard,
Lo, he shall answer thine elegy, bird,
Playing his ivory seven-stringed lyre.
Standing a God in the high Gods' quire.
Ay, bird, not he alone:
Hark! from immortal throats arise
Diviner threnodies
That sound and swoon in a celestial moan
And answer back thine own.
Come, my companion, cease from thy slumbers,
Pour out thy holy and musical numbers,
Sing and lament with a sweet throat divine,
Itys of many tears, thy son and mine!
Cry out, and quiver, and shake, dusky throat.
Throb viath the thrill of thy liquidest note.
Through the wide country and mournfully through
Leafy-haired branches and boughs of the yew.
Widens and rises the echo, until
Even the throne-room of God it shall fill!
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