Hast thou never heard the Poet's nightingale Chant her sweet music in the midnight hour,— Notes of unearthly tone, and magic power, And in a bright enchantment wrap the vale?— When to her nest a loathsome adder crept, And crush'd in death the bird of Poesy; As ceased her meekest moan to dim the eye, And all grew dreary silent where she wept.— So the bright bard, denied a fleeting name, Unstrung his harp, and spurn'd his deathless song, Died of deep grief, for undeserved wrong, And left to worthless men his living fame: Tears were his theme, but grief, that knows no tear, Veil'd his young eyes, and clos'd his brief career! June 5th, 1826.
