WHEN twilight's grey and pensive hour <br />Brings the low breeze, and shuts the flower, <br />And bids the solitary star <br />Shine in pale beauty from afar; <br /> <br />When gathering shades the landscape veil, <br />And peasants seek their village-dale, <br />And mists from river-wave arise, <br />And dew in every blossom lies; <br /> <br />When evening's primrose opes, to shed <br />Soft fragrance round her grassy bed; <br />When glow-worms in the wood-walk light <br />Their lamp, to cheer the traveller's sight; <br /> <br />At that calm hour, so still, so pale, <br />Awakes the lonely Nightingale; <br />And from a hermitage of shade <br />Fills with her voice the forest-glade. <br /> <br />And sweeter far that melting voice, <br />Than all which through the day rejoice; <br />And still shall bard and wanderer love <br />The twilight music of the grove. <br /> <br />Father in Heaven! oh! thus when day <br />With all its cares hath passed away, <br />And silent hours waft peace on earth, <br />And hush the louder strains of mirth; <br /> <br />Thus may sweet songs of praise and prayer <br />To Thee my spirit's offering bear; <br />Yon star, my signal, set on high, <br />For vesper-hymns of piety. <br /> <br />So may thy mercy and thy power <br />Protect me through the midnight hour; <br />And balmy sleep and visions blest <br />Smile on thy servant's bed of rest.<br /><br />Felicia Dorothea Hemans<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-nightingale-12/
