And pomp, and feast, and revelry, With mask, and antique pageantry, Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eves by haunted stream. Then to the well-trod stage anon, If Jonson's learned sock be on, Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child, Warble his native wood-notes wild, And ever, against eating cares, Lap me in soft Lydian airs, Married to immortal verse Such as the meeting soul may pierce, In notes with many a winding bout Of linked sweetness long drawn out.
O Blackbird! sing me something well: While all the neighbors shoot thee round, I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground, Where thou may'st Warble, eat and dwell.
'Tis the merry nightingale That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates With fast thick Warble his delicious notes, As he were fearful that an April night Would be too short for him to utter forth His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul Of all its music!Samuel Taylor Coleridge
No more fatigue, no more distress, Nor sin nor death shall reach the place; No groans shall mingle with the songs That Warble from immortal tongues.
There scatter'd oft the earliest of ye Year By Hands unseen are showers of Vi'lets found; The Redbreast loves to build and Warble there, And little Footsteps lightly print the ground.
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