AN EVENING ADDRESS TO A NIGHTINGALE. Cuthbert Shaw Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T116245 1136 K093079.003 Pearch, G. A collection of poems in four volumes. By several hands. Vol. III. [The second edition]. London printed for G. Pearch 1770 pp. 218-222. 4v. ; 8⁰.

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AN EVENING ADDRESS TO A NIGHTINGALE . BY THE SAME . SWEET bird ! that kindly perching near , Pourest thy plaints melodious in mine ear , Not , like base worldlings , tutor'd to forego The melancholy haunts of Woe , Thanks for thy sorrow-soothing strain : — For surely , thou hast known to prove , Like me , the pangs of hapless love , Else why so feelingly complain , And with thy piteous notes thus sadden all the grove ? Say , dost thou mourn thy ravish'd mate , That oft enamour'd on thy strains has hung ? Or has the cruel hand of Fate Bereft thee of thy darling young ? Alas , for BOTH , I weep — In all the pride of youthful charms , A beauteous bride torn from my circling arms ! A lovely babe that should have liv'd to bless , And fill my doating eyes with frequent tears , At once the source of rapture and distress , The flattering prop of my declining years ! In vain from death to rescue I essay'd , By every art that Science could devise , Alas ! it languish'd for a mother's aid , And wing'd its flight to seek her in the skies — Then O our comforts be the same , At evening's peaceful hour , To shun the noisy paths of wealth and fame , And breathe our sorrows in this lonely bower . But why alas ! to thee complain ! To thee — unconscious of my pain ! Soon shalt THOU cease to mourn thy lot severe , And hail the dawning of a happier year : The genial warmth of joy-renewing spring Again shall plume thy shatter'd wing ; Again thy little heart shall transport prove , Again shall slow thy notes responsive to thy love : But O for ME in vain may seasons roll , Nought can dry up the fountain of my tears , Deploring still the COMFORT OF MY SOUL , I count my sorrows by encreasing years . Tell me , thou Syren Hope , deceiver , say , Where is the promis'd period of my woes ? Full three long , lingering years have roll'd away , And yet I weep , a stranger to repose : O what delusion did thy tongue employ ! " That EMMA's fatal pledge of love , " Her last bequest — with all a mother's care , " The bitterness of sorrow should remove , " Soften the horrors of despair , " And chear a heart long lost to joy ! " How oft , when fondling in mine arms , Gazing enraptur'd on its angel-face , My soul the maze of Fate would vainly trace , And burn with all a father's fond alarms ! And O what flattering scenes had Fancy feign'd , How did I rave of blessings yet in store ! Till every aching sense was sweetly pain'd , And my full heart could bear , nor tongue could utter more . — " Just Heaven , I cry'd " — with recent hopes elate , " Yet I will live — will live , tho' EMMA's dead — " So long bow'd down beneath the storms of Fate , " Yet will I raise my woe-dejected head ! " My little EMMA , now my ALL , " Will want a father's care , " Her looks , her wants my rash resolves recal , " And for her sake the ills of life I'll bear : " And oft together we'll complain , " Complaint , the only bliss my soul can know , " From me , my child shall learn the mournful strain , " And prattle tales of woe ; " And O in that auspicious hour , " When Fate resigns her persecuting power , " With duteous zeal her hand shall close , " No more to weep — my sorrow-streaming eyes , " When death gives misery repose , " And opes a glorious passage to the skies . Vain thought ! it must not be — She too is dead — The flattering scene is o'er — My hopes for ever — ever fled — And vengeance can no more — Crush'd by misfortune — blasted by disease — And none — none left to bear a friendly part ! To meditate my welfare , health , or ease , Or sooth the anguish of an aching heart ! Now all one gloomy scene , till welcome death , With lenient hand ( O falsly deem'd severe ) Shall kindly stop my grief-exhausted breath , And dry up every tear : Perhaps , obsequious to my will , But ah ! from my affections far remov'd ! The last sad office strangers may fulfil , As if I ne'er had been belov'd ; As if , unconscious of poetic fire , I ne'er had touch'd the trembling lyre , As if my niggard hand ne'er dealt relief , Nor my heart melted at another's grief . Yet — while this weary life shall last , While yet my tongue can form the impassion'd strain , In piteous accents shall the Muse complain , And dwell with fond delay on blessings past : For O how grateful to a wounded heart , The tale of misery to impart ! From others' eyes bid artless sorrows flow , And raise esteem upon the base of woe ! Even HE Lord Lyttelton . , the noblest of the tuneful throng , Shall deign my love lorn tale to hear , Shall catch the soft contagion of my song , And pay my pensive Muse the tribute of a tear .