The shepherd touch'd his reed; sweet Philomel <br />Essay'd, and oft essay'd to catch the strain, <br />And treasuring, as on her ear they fell, <br />The numbers, echo’d note for note again. <br /> <br />The peevish youth, who ne'er had foundbefore <br />A rival of his skill, indignant heard, <br />And soon (for various was his tuneful store) <br />In loftier tones defied the simple bird. <br /> <br />She dared the task, and, rising as he rose, <br />With all the force that passion gives inspired, <br />Return’d the sounds awhile, but in the close <br />Exhausted fell, and at his feet expired. <br /> <br />Thus strength, not skill prevail'd. O fatal strife, <br />By thee, poor songstress, playfully begun; <br />And, O sad victory, which cost thy life, <br />And he may wish that he had never won!<br /><br />William Cowper<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/strada-s-nightingale/
