Bird of the joyous season!
That, from thy flowery seat,
Dost teach the forest singers
Thy music to repeat.

Thou wooer of the morning,
That, to this wood withdrawn,
Dost serenade the daybreak,
Dost celebrate the dawn.

Soul of this lonely region,
That hearest me lament,
My days in sighing wasted,
My nights in weeping spent.

Chief lyrist of the woodland,
And poet of the spring!
That well art skilled in sorrow,
And well of love canst sing.

Go where my lady loosens
Her bright hair to the wind,
Held in a single fillet,
Or floating unconfined.

The beautiful and cruel,
Whose steps, where'er they pass,
Tread down more hearts of lovers
Than lilies in the grass.

Sweet nightingale, accost her,
And, in thy tenderest strain,
Say Silvio loves thee: Cruel!
Why lov'st thou not again?

Then tell of all I suffer,
How well have loved and long,
And counsel her to pity,
And tax her scorn with wrong.

My gentle Secretary!
If harshly then she speak,
Rebuke her anger, striking
Her red lips with thy beak.

Drink from her breath the fragrance
Of all the blooming year,
And bring me back the answer
For which I linger here.