O, scarcely is Spring a time of pure bliss,
He is wrong who full trust thereon layeth;
From many it may
Take sorrow away,
But to many it trouble conveyeth.
O, when every thing is as joyous in Spring,
As in heaven, that never is dreary;
’Tis a grievous case
If one mournful must pace,
And cannot be also merry!
THE NIGHTINGALE
_Translated from the Danish_
In midnight’s calm hour the Nightingale sings
Of freedom, of love, and delight;
Come, haste to the grove where melody rings,
’Tis Philomel’s notes that invite.
A fowler attentively follows her there,
Resolv’d for his victim to spread out a snare:
_Think_, _girls_, _of the Nightingale’s fate_, _and beware_!
In ambush his nets he carefully brings,
Glad innocence feels no alarm;
Unguarded her flight—’midst danger she wings—
And falls into sorrowful harm.
Alas! she is silent, and full of despair,
He glides away quick with his treasure so rare:
_Think_, _girls_, _of the Nightingale’s fate_, _and beware_!
A beautiful cage adorns his fair prize,
In hope that for him she will sing;
But Freedom, that wafted her notes to the skies,
Bore Gladness away on its wing.
Thus you, Philomela, resemble the fair,
And we, we delight in the love that we share:
_O_, _think of the Nightingale’s fate_, _and beware_!