Page:Modern poets and poetry of Spain.djvu/335

But, hark! what dulcet notes arise
The neighbouring woods among?
Causing these tender thoughts and sighs
My lonely breast to throng.
Sweet Nightingale, it is thy song!
I always loved thy wood-notes wild,
Like me from sorrow ne'er beguiled.

Perish whoe'er for thy soft note
Seeks thee to oppress or take.
Why rather not like me remote,
Thee follow through the brake,
Where these thick woods our shelter make?
Fly free and happy round thy nest;
Enslaved I wish none, none oppress'd.

Night, ancient goddess! Chaos thee
Produced before the sun;
And the last sun 't is thine to see
When the world's course is run;
And the Lord wills his work undone!
Hear me, while this life's breath is raised,
By me thou shalt be loved and praised.

Before time was, in Chaos vast
Thou laid perhaps mightst view
Thy coming beauties, as forecast

Thy destined glories grew: