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Birds-Nightingale: Quotations from Cyclopedia of Practical Quotations
Mocking-bird. Then from the neighboring thicket the mocking-bird, wildest of singers, Swinging aloft on a willow spray that hung o'er the water, Shook from his little throat such floods of delirious music, That the whole air and the woods and the waves seemed silent to listen.— LONGFELLOW — Evangeline. Pt. II. St. 2.
Living echo, bird of eve, Hush thy wailing, cease to grieve; Pretty warbler, wake the grove To notes of joy, to songs of love.— THOMAS MORTON — Pretty Mocking-Bird.
Winged mimic of the woods! thou motley fool! Who shall thy gay buffoonery describe? Thine ever-ready notes of ridicule Pursue thy fellows still with jest and jibe: Wit, sophist, songster, Yorick of thy tribe Thou sportive satirist of Nature's school; To thee the palm of scoffing we ascribe, Arch-mocker and mad abbot of misrule! ROBERT WILDE, D.D.-Sonnet. To the Mocking-Bird. Nightingale. Hark! ah, the nightingale- The tawny-throated! Hark from that moonlit cedar what a burst! What triumph! hark!-what pain! * * * * * * Listen, Eugenia- How thick the bursts come crowding through the leaves! Again-thou hearest? Eternal passion! Eternal pain!— MATTHEW ARNOLD — Philomela. L. 32.
For as nightingales do upon glow-worms feed So poets live upon the living light.— BAILEY — Festus. Sc. Home.
As it fell upon a day In the merry month of May, Sitting in a pleasant shade Which a grove of myrtles made.— RICHARD BARNFIELD — Address to the
Nightingale. It is the hour when from the boughs The nightingale's high note is heard; It is the hour when lovers' vows Seem sweet in every whisper'd word.— BYRON — Parisina. St. 1.
"Most musical, most melancholy" bird ! A melancholy bird! Oh! idle thought! In nature there is nothing melancholy.— COLERIDGE — The Nightingale. L. 13.
'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!— COLERIDGE — The Nightingale. L. 43.
Sweet bird, that sing'st away the early hours, Of winter's past or coming void of care, Well pleased with delights which present are, Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers.— DRUMMOND — Sonnet. To a Nightingale.
Like a wedding-song all-melting Sings the nightingale, the dear one.— HEINE — Book of Songs. Donna Clara.
The nightingale appear'd the first, And as her melody she sang, The apple into blossom burst, To life the grass and violets sprang.— HEINE — Book of Songs. New Spring. No. 9.
And the nightingale's sweet music Fills the air and leafy bowers.— HEINE — Book of Songs. New Spring. No. 31.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley-glades: Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music :-do I wake or sleep?— KEATS — To a Nightingale.
Thou wast not born for death, immortal bird! No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown.— KEATS — To a Nightingale.
Where the nightingale doth sing Not a senseless, tranced thing, But divine melodious truth.— KEATS — Ode, "Bards of Passion and of
Mirth." Soft as Memnon's harp at morning, To the inward ear devout, Touched by light, with heavenly warning Your transporting chords ring out. Every leaf in every nook Every wave in every brook, Chanting with a solemn voice Minds us of our better choice.— JOHN KEBLE — The Nightingale.
To the red rising moon, and loud and deep The nightingale is singing from the steep. LONGFELLOw-Keats.
What bird so sings, yet does so wail? O, 'tis the ravish'd nightingale- Jug, jug, jug, jug-tereu-she cries, And still her woes at midnight rise.— LYLY — The Songs of Birds.
O nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still; Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fill While the jolly hours lead on propitious May.— MILTON — Sonnet. To the Nightingale.
Sweet bird that shunn'st the noise of folly, Most musical, most melancholy! Thee, chauntress, oft, the woods among, I woo, to hear thy even-song.— MILTON — Il Penseroso. L. 61.
Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day; First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill, Portend success in love;— MILTON — Sonnet. To the Nightingale.
I said to the Nightingale; "Hail, all hail! Pierce with thy trill the dark, Like a glittering music-spark, When the earth grows pale and dumb."— D. M. MULOCK — A Rhyme About Birds
Yon nightingale, whose strain so sweetly flows, Mourning her ravish'd young or much-loved mate, A soothing charm o'er all the valleys throws And skies, with notes well tuned to her sad state.— PETRARCH — To Laura in Death.
Sonnet XLIII. Hark! that's the nightingale, Telling the self-same tale Her song told when this ancient earth was young: So echoes answered when her song was sung In the first wooded vale.— CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI — Twilight Calm. St. 7.
The sunrise wakes the lark to sing, The moonrise wakes the nightingale. Come, darkness, moonrise, everything That is so silent, sweet, and pale: Come, so ye wake the nightingale.— CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI — Bird Raptures. St. 1.
The angel of spring, the mellow-throated nightingale. Sappho. Fragm. 39. The nightingale, if she should sing by day, When every goose is cackling, would be thought No better a musician than the wren. How many things by season season'd are To their right praise, and true perfection!— Shakespeare — Merchant of Venice. Act V. Sc. 1. L. 104.
Wilt thou be gone? it is not yet near day: It was the nightingale, and not the lark, That pierc'd the fearful hollow of thine ear; Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate tree: Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.— Shakespeare — Romeo and Juliet. Act III. Sc. 5. L. 1.
Wilt thou have music? hark, Apollo plays, And twenty caged nightingales do sing. Taming of the Shrew. Induction. Sc. 2. L. 37. One nightingale in an interfluous wood Satiate the hungry dark with melody.— SHELLEY — The Woodman and the
Nightingale. O Nightingale, Cease from thy enamoured tale.— SHELLEY — Scenes from
66 Magico Prodigioso." Sc. 3. The nightingale as soon as April bringeth Unto her rested sense a perfect waking, While late bare earth, proud of new clothing, springeth, Sings out her woes, a thorn her song-book making. And mournfully bewailing, Her throat in tunes expresseth What grief her breast oppresseth.— SIR PHILIP SIDNEY — O Philomela Fair.
Lend me your song, ye Nightingales! O, pour The mazy-running soul of melody Into my varied verse.— THOMSON — The Seasons. Spring. L. 574.
O honey-throated warbler of the grove! That in the glooming woodland art so proud Of answering thy sweet mates in soft or loud, Thou dost not own a note we do not love.— CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER
Sonnets and Fugitive Pieces. To the Nightingale. The rose looks out in the valley, And thither will I go, To the rosy vale, where the nightingale Sings his song of woe.— GIL VICENTE — The Nightingale.
Bowring's trans.