To the Nightingale

    This moment is thy time to sing，

    This moment I attend to praise

    Andt set my numbers to thy lays.

    Free as thine shall be my song，

    As thy music， short or long.

    Poets wild as thou were born

    Pleasing best when unconfined，

    When to please is least designed，

    Soothing¹ but their cares to rest.

    Cares do still their thoughts molest²，

    And still the unhappy poet's breast，

    Like thine，when best he sings，is placed against a thorn.

    She begins. Let all be still！

    Muse³，thy promise now fulfil！

    Sweet， oh sweet，still sweeter yet！

    Can thy words such accents fit，

    Canst thou syllables⁴ refine，

    Melt a sense that shall retain

    Still some spirit of the brain，

    Till with sounds like these it join？

    'Twill not be！ then change thy note；

    Let division shake thy throat.

    Hark！Division now she tries；

    Yet as far the Muse outflies.

    Cease then，prithee，cease thy tune⁵.

    Trifler，wilt thou sing till June？

    Till thy business all lies waste，

    And the time of building's past！

    Thus we poets that have speech，

    Unlike what thy forests teach，

    If a fluent vein⁶ be shown

    That's transcendent to our own，

    Criticize，reform，or preach，

    Or censure⁷ what we cannot reach.