Well I remember how the nightingale,
That linger'd in the genial South so long,
Made his sweet trespass, broke his ancient pale,
And brought into the North his wondrous song.
But, when I thought to hear his first sweet bar,
He sang a mile away: I could not seek
His chosen haunt, for I was faint and weak:
Alas! I cried, so near and yet so far:
Kind nature gather'd all the sounds I love
About my window; lowings of the kine,
The thrush, the linnet, and the cooing dove;
But out, alas! how should I not repine,
When, scarce a mile beyond my garden grove,
The night-bird warbled for all ears but mine?