The Nightingale sings to the midnight air,
All darkling and alone:
And the Lover's lute, mid the gloom of despair,
Gives forth its sweetest tone.
But the Lark springs up with the morn's first blush,
And mounts the clouds above;
As he sings to his mate, in the hawthorn bush,
The tale of his happy love.
But hark, that note from the clustering shade!
It has reached his listening ear;
And, with pinions closed, to her leafy bed,
He comes, like a falling star.
O! happy Love! O happy pair!
O for that tuneful art!
That I might breathe in my Lucy's ear
The voice of a happy heart.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.