TO A NIGHTINGALE IN CLIFDEN WOOD.

TO MRS. D. MONCK, OF COOKHAM.

SAY, sad tenant of the grove,
 Whence the pains that now you prove? 
Why, within your throbbing breast,
 Why is Sorrow still a guest? 
Sleeps in death your murder'd mate? 
Weep'st thou his melancholy fate? 
If 'tis that disturbs thy peace
 Spring shall bid thy sorrows cease;
 Then thy breast, that heaves in woe,
 With Love's bright flame again shall glow. 
Yet, sweet mourner, still complain,
 Nor, though bless'd, forbear thy strain;
 For, sweetly sad thy warblings flow,
 And charming is thy song of woe;
 As at eve he treads the plain,
 Oft it soothes the shepherd swain;
 When he seeks the conscious shade,
 There to meet the village maid;
 He with rapture hears thy lay
 Issue from the hawthorn spray;
 And with mine unites his praise
 Of Philomela's tender lays.