THE NIGHTINGALE;A CONVERSATIONAL POEM, WRITTEN IN APRIL, 1798.

No cloud, no relique of the sunken day

Distinguishes the West, no long thin slip

Of sullen Light, no obscure trembling hues.

Come, we will rest on this old mossy Bridge!

You see the glimmer of the stream beneath,

But hear no murmuring: it ?ows silently

Oer its soft bed of verdure. All is still,

A balmy night! and tho the stars be dim,

Yet let us think upon the vernal showers

That gladden the green earth, and we shall ?nd

A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.

And hark! the Nightingale begins its song,

"Most musical, most melancholy"[1] Bird!

A melancholy Bird? O idle thought!

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