MADHU MALTI

Little Robin Red Breast : A Nursery rhyme : Bird Poems : :

Little Robin Red Breast : : A Nursery rhyme: In this Popular Nursery Rhyme Little Robin Red Breasted Bird is shown in playing mood together with a Pussy Cat. In an earlier version , the little robin redbreast used to wag his tail and nod his head. The Robin tells the cat to catch him if it can. The cat tries to catch the bird and climbs up the tree but it does not succeed. While playing the catch me if you can game, the cat gets tired and gives up. And the bird also flies away in search of a new friend to play with. The playing time must be fulfilled first , no matter what and how you find your playmate(s). Your child should know what the Chirping sound is made by almost all the birds differently which are generally sweet and short. You can use this word in the sentences like: “The birds were chirping in the bushes.” Take your child to such bushes and let him / her try find out one or two such chirping birds. It is meaningfully making high pitched sound , heard and overheard even from a distance. : : Cheep & Peep. When you hear some birds singing musically in varying modulation the pleasure is supreme and poetic. Will you search some twiddles !?

Let your little one find out The end of the sentence which has the words ran, can, wall, and fall. Here the words run and can have a similar voice. So, the rhyming words in the poem are:

Ran – Can

Wall – Fall

Some other examples of rhyming words are:

Went – Tent

Sat – Mat

Catch – Match

Introduce your children to the game catch me if you can. Show them hundreds of photos of little beautiful Robin Birds and describe them for him / her a new interesting Avian World of LIFE 🧬 : : It is a playful light and mood where a bird plays with the cat till it gets tired. So, dear Readers, chirrup for a while in the company of your little ones.

“Little Robin Red Breast”, A Bird ( Nursery ) Poem, Information Appreciation and poem Analysis Presented by V Jayaraj Pune India October 12 , 2023 : : : : : : : :

The Redbreast Chasing A Butterfly : William Wordsworth : : Bird Poems : :

**Wordsworth on Helvellyn by Benjamin Haydon (National Portrait Gallery). : Alma Mater : St John’s College, Cambridge**

**“A beautiful creature,**
**That is gentle by nature?**
**Beneath the summer sky**
**From flower to flower let him fly;”**

The Redbreast Chasing The Butterfly : : By William Wordsworth ( 1770 – 1850 ) England:
ART thou the bird whom Man loves best,
The pious bird with the scarlet breast,
Our little English Robin;
The bird that comes about our doors
When Autumn-winds are sobbing?
Art thou the Peter of Norway Boors?
Their Thomas in Finland,
And Russia far inland?
The bird, that by some name or other
All men who know thee call their brother,
The darling of children and men?
Could Father Adam open his eyes
And see this sight beneath the skies,
He’d wish to close them again.
–If the Butterfly knew but his friend,
Hither his flight he would bend;
And find his way to me,
Under the branches of the tree:
In and out, he darts about;
Can this be the bird, to man so good,
That, after their bewildering,
Covered with leaves the little children,
So painfully in the wood?
What ailed thee, Robin, that thou could’st pursue
A beautiful creature,
That is gentle by nature?
Beneath the summer sky
From flower to flower let him fly;
‘Tis all that he wishes to do.
The cheerer Thou of our in-door sadness,
He is the friend of our summer gladness:
What hinders, then, that ye should be
Playmates in the sunny weather,
And fly about in the air together!
His beautiful wings in crimson are drest,
A crimson as bright as thine own:
Would’st thou be happy in thy nest,
O pious Bird! whom man loves best,
Love him, or leave him alone!
— William Wordsworth

“The Redbreast Chasing A Butterfly”, A 39 lines in ballad – like 2 Stanzas Bird Poem by William Wordsworth ( 1770 – 1850 : Poet Laureate of U. K. : 6 April 1843 – 23 April 1850 ) is About An allusion that man’s sinfulness is the root of human injustice. Wordsworth also uses extended metaphor. By comparing people to robins and butterflies, he personifies the unidentifiable and impalpable attributes of injustice. : : The Poet Speaker wants Robin to not kill the butterfly as it has been there with him at times of grief and happiness expressed by going door to door, chirping in the melody. Hence Robin should leave the butterfly alone. : : The Poet’s humble request and wish expressed in the words : : “ye should be
Playmates in the sunny weather,
And fly about in the air together!” : : : :

Notes for each of the lines Pending visit this post again later on to enjoy the appreciation of the poem V Jayaraj Pune India October 11, 2023 : : : :

Why The Robin’s Breast Was Red : James Ryder Randall : : Bird Poems : :

James Ryder Randall in Stories of Great National Songs, 1899. Courtesy Wikimedia Commons.: : James Ryder Randall ( January 1, 1839 – January 15, 1908 ) was an American poet and journalist. He is best remembered as the author of “Maryland, My Maryland”. Due to his support for the Confederacy in the Civil War, he is sometimes called the “Poet Laureate of the Lost Cause”Maryland, My Maryland” was adopted as the state song of Maryland in 1939.

**Randall is commemorated by James Ryder Randall Elementary School in Clinton, Maryland. : His Poetry included Maryland, My Maryland, and other poems. Baltimore, MD: John Murphy, 1908.**
**Poems (edited by Matthew Page Andrews). New York: Tandy-Thomas, 1910.** : : He wrote numerous other poetry. His later work breathed a deeply religious tone. : : Randall was born in Baltimore, Maryland. He accepted the chair of English literature at Poydras College, Pointe-Coupée, Louisiana, then a flourishing Creole institution. Hearing of the attack upon the federal troops in Baltimore on 21 April, 1861, in which a classmate had been wounded, his Southern sympathies were so aroused that during the night by the light of a candle he composed what is generally acknowledged to be America’s most martial poem, which appeared in the New Orleans Sunday Delta of April 26, 1861. Reaching Baltimore, it was set to the music of “Lauriger Horatius” by Miss Jennie Cary, who added “My Maryland” to each stanza. A German musician of Southern sympathies eventually set the poem to “Tannenbaum, O Tannenbaum”, the original of “Lauriger Horatius”.

**After the war, Randall engaged in newspaper work, holding several important editorial positions, eventually becoming Washington correspondent for the Augusta “Chronicle”.**

**He died in August, Georgia, aged 69. He is buried in Augusta’s Magnolia Cemetery**

**Little Antique Robin Photograph Tom Quartermaine. From fineartamerica.com**

**American Male Robin , Photograph From fineartamerica.com : visit the site having 1156 Photographs of European + American Robin Birds.**

Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.

739 Why the Robin’s Breast Was Red : : By James Ryder Randall ( From : Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900. ) : : : :
THE SAVIOUR, bowed beneath his cross, climbed up the dreary hill,

And from the agonizing wreath ran many a crimson rill;

The cruel Roman thrust him on with un-relenting hand,

Till, staggering slowly mid the crowd, He fell upon the sand.

A little bird that warbled near, that memorable day,

Flitted around and strove to wrench one single thorn away;

The cruel spike impaled his breast,—and thus, ’t is sweetly said,

The Robin has his silver vest incarnadined with red.

Ah, Jesu! Jesu! Son of man! My dolor and my sighs

Reveal the lesson taught by this winged Ishmael of the skies.

I, in the palace of delight or cavern of despair,

Have plucked no thorns from thy dear brow, but planted thousands there!

“Why The Robin’s Chest was Red “, A Bird Poem by American Poet James Ryder Randall is About remembering The Jesus Christ who “climbed up the dreary hill / The cruel Roman thrust him on with un-relenting hand,” ( punished brutally in continuous harshness. ) / “Till, staggering slowly mid the crowd, He fell upon the sand.” ( He walked slowly with great difficulty and fell upon the sand. ) That was a memorable day when “a little bird warbled near bleeding Jesus 🩸🩸 🩸: singing by yodeling , that is with a half note 🎵🎶 “/from the agonizing wreath ran many a crimson rill;” : that is, a streamlet of blood ran forming a small channel on the soil. That was a small warbler bird , Robin who “Flitted around” ( rapidly and lightly moved around ) and “strove to wrench one single thorn away;” Meaning, ( twisted strain – fully trying to reach jerkily ) to remove atleast one single thorn away from the ( crown of ) spiky wreath ( crested ) on Jesus , The Saviour. What happened then , was ,

“The cruel spike impaled his breast,—and thus, ’t is sweetly said, /The Robin has his silver vest incarnadined with red.” : : : : : : ( The large stout thorny ) spike – impaled the breast of Robin, piercing with its sharp point. And thus it is sweetly said, ( As The Poet Speaker remembers from the holy story ), The Robin that had had his silver vest, made his flesh red coloured. Here, a painful grief was taken in by the Robin, from the Jesus , the Saviour , as dolorously shown sorrows, in a memorable line of poetry, viz. ” Ah, Jesu! Jesu! Son of man! My dolor and my sighs
Reveal the lesson taught by this winged Ishmael of the skies.” : : The Poet Speaker uttered a sigh heavily with deep sadness ! Here, this “winged / Ishmael of the skies” , is a small bird Robin, who was rejected by the living world due to his smallness and ordinary colourless appearance in just as much as that of the son of Abraham who was cast out after the birth of Issac , considered as the forbear of 12 Arabian tribes which can be learned from the Old Testament. The mankind represented also by The Poet Speaker who says, “Have plucked no thorns from thy dear brow, but planted thousands there!” : And was part of the mid – crowd gathered at the hilltop on that memorable day of crucifixion of Jesus, the Saviour and was among them who actually planted thousands of Spikes / long nails on the forehead “/ thy brows” : It was only one small bird Robin who on that agonising moments of sadness and anguish , attempted to remove atleast one spiky thorn from the forehead so that little of the huge pain and grief taken in by Jesus Christ on behalf of the mankind’s All Sorrows , could be relieved. When we look at the Red ♥️ breasted Robin we get the moral and emotional strength. Thus Robin has become a consolatory bird of reassuring comfort and console which is as much consoling as merciful memorable face of compassion of Jesus Christ , the Saviour of humanity. For this, we go to find a little from inside His Church; the same solace we find and feel outside , in view of red Breasted Robin. : : : :

However, the Science facts behind this is also awesome : : The robin’s distinctive red breast is a beautiful sight as it’s seen against a backdrop of fresh snow ❄️ in Winter. It’s actually a tool in their ongoing campaign to gain or retain territory, according to research from the University of Cambridge. For each year that passes, a male’s red breast gets a little larger ( small silvery white flesh too is visible! ) : : Robins do not typically die of old age, so every year a robin survives is a credit to its survival skills. Following this logic, an older robin with a large red breast is a real threat, as his survival skills must be perfect and complete.. Such a robin could therefore use his sorrowing red ♥️ breast to attract mates, or to intimidate younger birds in battles over territory. : : ♥️ ♥️

” Why The Robin’s Breast was Red” , A Bird Poem by American Poet James Ryder Randall Information Appreciation and poem Analysis Presented by V Jayaraj Pune India October 10 , 2023 : : : : : : : :

The Robin : Witter Bynner : : Bird Poems : :

**Witter Bynner ( b. August 10, 1881**
**New York City, U.S. — died, June 1, 1968 (aged 86)**
Santa Fe, New Mexico, U.S.was born in Brooklyn, New York in 1881. He graduated from Harvard University in 1902. After college, he worked as a newspaper reporter and, later, as the assistant editor of McClure’s magazine.

Bynner published his first poetry collection, An Ode to Harvard (Small, Maynard, & Co.), in 1907. He was also the author of New Poems (Alfred A. Knopf, 1960); Take Away the Darkness (Alfred A. Knopf, 1947); The Beloved Stranger (Alfred A. Knopf, 1919); Tiger (M. Kennerley, 1913); and several other poetry collections. The style of Bynner’s early poetry is comparable to that of A.E. Housman. His later poetry reflects his familiarity with Japanese and Chinese poetry, becoming less traditionally structured in form. Bynner translated The Jade Mountain: A Chinese Anthology: Being Three Hundred Poems of the T’ang Dynasty 618–906 (1929) from the texts of Kian Kang-Hu. He also translated a version of the Tao Te Ching—The Way of Life According to Laotse (1949). : : Bynner was a professor of Oral English for the Students’ Army Training Corps at the University of California, Berkeley, in 1918. When World War I ended, he taught a course in poetry writing. In 1922 he moved to Santa Fe, New Mexico, where he and his partner, Robert Hunt, entertained artists and literary figures such as D.H. Lawrence, Georgia O’Keeffe, and Carl Sandburg at their home.

B & W Headshot of Witter Bynner against the painting of A deer. In 1916 Bynner and Arthur Davison Ficke co-authored Spectra: A Book of Poetic Experiments, which they published under pen names. The book was a spoof on the literary movement known as Imagism—the poems in the book were allegedly written by “Spectrists.”From 1921 to 1923, Bynner had served as president of the Poetry Society of America.

The Robin : : By Witter Bynner ( 1881 – 1968 )

Except within poetic pale
I have not found a nightingale,
Nor hearkened in a dusky vale
To song and silence blending;
No stock-dove have I ever heard,
Nor listened to a cuckoo-bird,
Nor seen a lark ascending.
But I have felt a pulse-beat start
Because a robin, spending
The utmost of his simple art
Some of his pleasure to impart
While twilight came descending,
Has found an answer in my heart,
A sudden comprehending.

— Witter Bynner

“The Robin” Originally published in Young Harvard, and Other Poems (Frederick A. Stokes, 1907), A Bird Poem by American Poet Witter Bynner is About Robin bird, and Nature. The Poet Speaker has not found a Nightingale or a vale , the singing birds. He has not heard stock – dove or a Cuckoo – bird. He has not seen an ascending lark. But surprisingly, he could receive a Robin transmitting his pleasure while twilight came descending and with that found an answer in his heart ❤️ and became aware of through his senses ( “felt a pulse – beat start” ) thus, the broader meaning being in Nature coveyed to him suddenly. That is the way this imagist Poem draws a picture of a small bird Robin and his pleasant state of being in Nature.

“The Robin”, An imagist bird Poem By Witter Bynner Information Appreciation and poem Analysis Presented by V Jayaraj Pune India October 9, 2023 : : : : : : : :

How Dare The Robins Sing : Emily Dickinson : : Bird Poems : :

How dare the robins sing : : by Emily Dickinson
1724

How dare the robins sing,
When men and women hear
Who since they went to their account
Have settled with the year! —
Paid all that life had earned
In one consummate bill,
And now, what life or death can do
Is immaterial.
Insulting is the sun
To him whose mortal light
Beguiled of immortality
Bequeaths him to the night.
Extinct be every hum
In deference to him
Whose garden wrestles with the dew,
At daybreak overcome!

— Emily Dickinson

“How Dare The Robins Sing”,A Bird Poem by Emily Dickinson is About a grievous sort of death. All hope from the natural world seems to have been abolished and Death has won. Through demands and trickery, it has beaten out all signs of immortality. : :

Notes for each of the lines Pending visit this post again later on to enjoy the appreciation of the poem V Jayaraj Pune India October 8 , 2023 : : : :

I dreaded that first Robin, so : Emily Dickinson : : Bird Poems : :

I dreaded that first Robin, so : : Emily Dickinson

I dreaded that first Robin, so,
But He is mastered, now,
I’m accustomed to Him grown,
He hurts a little, though—

I thought If I could only live
Till that first Shout got by—
Not all Pianos in the Woods
Had power to mangle me—

I dared not meet the Daffodils—
For fear their Yellow Gown
Would pierce me with a fashion
So foreign to my own—

I wished the Grass would hurry—
So when ’twas time to see—
He’d be too tall, the tallest one
Could stretch to look at me—

I could not bear the Bees should come,
I wished they’d stay away
In those dim countries where they go,
What word had they, for me?

They’re here, though; not a creature failed—
No Blossom stayed away
In gentle deference to me—
The Queen of Calvary—

Each one salutes me, as he goes,
And I, my childish Plumes,
Lift, in bereaved acknowledgment
Of their unthinking Drums –

“I Dreaded That First Robin” 28 lines in 7 Stanzas , each with a quatrain of 4 lines in A Surprising Springtime Bird Poem by Emily Dickinson is About Nature , filled with dread and distaste. The Poet Speaker sees spring as a reminder of death and presents the message of life that comes with an imminent death. Robin,” Woods,” and “Daffodils,”are the life forms meaningfully explored in the poem. The Spring and the foreboding signs are held in scorn.

One dreaded robin flies by the Poet Speaker, at the beginning of every spring. This is how she realises spring has come. But, sheThe bird has always been unfriendly to the bird although she has been used to him. She depicts a number of signs of the season she hates.
The most prominent of these is spreading of life itself. She does not want to see the daffodils growing outside nor the bees pollinating the flowers. They will only be beneficial to the growth of more flowers, which she does not want.
The poem ends with the speaker giving into the season. Since She knows there is no way to stop the Springtime she ought to accept it with “bereaved acknowledgement.” And she childishly decks with plumes.

Notes for each of the lines Pending visit this post again later on to enjoy the appreciation of the poem V Jayaraj Pune India October 7 , 2023 : : : :

Nightingale Poems : Various Poets : : Bird Poems : :

* The Owl And The Nightingale : : By Anonymous : : composed as early as 1189 or shortly thereafter : : Lines 1 through 100
Page 2
[folio 233r.1]
ICH was in one sumere dale,
in one suþe diȝele hale,
iherde ich holde grete tale
an hule and one niȝtingale.
Þat plait was stif & starc & strong, 5
sum wile softe & lud among;
an aiþer aȝen oþer sval,
& let þat [vue]le mod ut al.
& eiþer seide of oþeres custe
þat alre-worste þat hi wuste: 10
& hure & hure of oþere[s] songe
hi holde plaiding suþe stronge.
Þe niȝtingale bigon þe speche,
in one hurne of one breche,
Page 4
& sat up one vaire boȝe, 15
– þar were abute blosme inoȝe,-
in ore waste þicke hegge
imeind mid spire & grene segge.
Ho was þe gladur uor þe rise,
& song auele cunne wise: 20
[b]et þuȝte þe dreim þat he were
of harpe & pipe þan he nere:
bet þuȝte þat he were ishote
of harpe & pipe þan of þrote.
[Þ]o stod on old stoc þar biside, 25
þar þo vle song hire tide,
& was mid iui al bigrowe;
hit was þare hule earding-stowe.
[Þ]e niȝtingale hi iseȝ,
& hi bihold & ouerseȝ, 30
& þuȝte wel [vu]l of þare hule,
for me hi halt lodlich & fule.
“Vnwiȝt,” ho sede, “awei þu flo!
me is þe w[u]rs þat ich þe so. [folio 233r.2]
Iwis for þine [vu]le lete, 35
wel [oft ich] mine song forlete;
Page 6
min horte atfliþ & falt mi tonge,
wonne þu art [to me] iþrunge.
Me luste bet speten þane singe
of þine fule ȝoȝelinge.” 40
Þos hule abod fort hit was eve,
ho ne miȝte no leng bileue,
vor hire horte was so gret
þat wel neȝ hire fnast atschet,
& warp a word þar-after longe; 45
“Hu þincþe nu bi mine songe?
We[n]st þu þat ich ne cunne singe,
þeȝ ich ne cunne of writelinge?
Ilome þu dest me grame,
& seist me [boþe tone] & schame. 50
Ȝif ich þe holde on mine uote,
(so hit bitide þat ich mote!)
& þu were vt of þine rise,
þu sholdest singe an oþer w[i]se.”
Þe niȝtingale ȝaf answare: 55
“Ȝif ich me loki wit þe bare,
& me schilde wit þe blete,
ne reche ich noȝt of þine þrete;
Page 8
ȝif ich me holde in mine hegge,
ne recche ich neuer what þu segge. 60
Ich wot þat þu art unmilde
wiþ hom þat ne muȝe from [þ]e schilde;
& þu tukest wroþe & vuele,
whar þu miȝt, over smale fuȝele.
Vorþi þu art loþ al fuel-kunne, 65
& alle ho þe driueþ honne,
& þe bischricheþ & bigredet,
& wel narewe þe biledet; [folio 233v.1]
& ek forþe þe sulue mose,
hire þonkes, wolde þe totose. 70
þu art lodlich to biholde,
& þu art loþ in monie volde;
þi bodi is short, þi swore is smal,
grettere is þin heued þan þu al;
þin eȝene boþ col-blake & brode, 75
riȝt swo ho weren ipeint mid wode;
þu starest so þu wille abiten
al þat þu mi[ȝ]t mid cliure smiten:
þi bile is stif & scharp & hoked,
riȝt so an owel þat is croked; 80
þar-mid þu clackes[t] oft & longe,
& þat is on of þine songe.
Ac þu þretest to mine fleshe,
mid þine cliures woldest me meshe.
þe were icundur to one frogge 85
* * * * *
Page 10
snailes, mus, & fule wiȝte,
boþ þine cunde & þine riȝte.
Þu sittest adai & fliȝ[s]t aniȝt,
þu cuþest þat þu art on vnwiȝt. 90
Þu art lodlich & unclene,
bi þine neste ich hit mene,
& ek bi þine fule brode,
þu fedest on hom a wel ful fode.
Vel wostu þat hi doþ þarinne, 95
hi fuleþ hit up to þe chinne:
ho sitteþ þar so hi bo bisne.
Þarbi men segget a uorbisne:
“Dahet habbe þat ilke best
þat fuleþ his owe nest.” 100 For Modern Translation To understand this Poem , Visit the website : Link 🔗 Given HERE : : The Owl And The Nightingale ( 1790 + lines from London British Library: : : : A debate between Owl & Nightingale which have very different views on everything from religion and poetry to lavatorial habits. It anticipates Chaucer’s The Parliament of Fowls by nearly two centuries: wpwt.soton.ac.uk ** To The Nightingale : : by John Milton

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.
Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day,
First heard before the shallow cuckoo’s bill,
Portend success in love. O, if Jove’s will
Have linked that amorous power to thy soft lay,
Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate
Foretell my hopeless doom, in some grove nigh;
As thou from year to year hast sung too late
For my relief, yet hadst no reason why.
Whether the Muse or Love call thee his mate,
Both them I serve, and of their train am I.
— John Milton

*** “O Nightingale! Thou Surely Art”
by William Wordsworth

O nightingale! thou surely art
A creature of a “fiery heart”:—
These notes of thine—they pierce and pierce;
Tumultuous harmony and fierce!
Thou sing’st as if the God of wine
Had helped thee to a Valentine;
A song in mockery and despite
Of shades, and dews, and silent night;
And steady bliss, and all the loves
Now sleeping in these peaceful groves.
I heard a Stock-dove sing or say
His homely tale, this very day;
His voice was buried among trees,
Yet to be come at by the breeze:
He did not cease, but cooed—and cooed;
And somewhat pensively he wooed:
He sang of love, with quiet blending,
Slow to begin, and never ending;
Of serious faith, and inward glee;
That was the Song—the Song for me!
— William Wordsworth

*V : : The Singing Lesson
by Jean Ingelow

A nightingale made a mistake;
She sang a few notes out of tune:
Her heart was ready to break,
And she hid away from the moon.
She wrung her claws, poor thing,
But was far too proud to weep;
She tucked her head under her wing,
And pretended to be asleep.
A lark, arm in arm with a thrush,
Came sauntering up to the place;
The nightingale felt herself blush,
Though feathers hid her face;
She knew they had they had heard her song,
She felt them snicker and sneer;
She thought that life was too long,
And wished she could skip a year.
“O nightingale!” cooed a dove;
“O nightingale! what’s the use?
You bird of beauty and love,
Why behave like a goose?
Don’t sulk away from our sight,
Like a common, contemptible fowl;
You bird of joy and delight,
Why behave like an owl?
“Only think of all you have done;
Only think of all you can do;
A false note is really fun
From such a bird as you!
Lift up your proud little crest,
Open your musical beak;
Other birds have to do their best,
You need only to speak!”
The nightingale shyly took
Her head from under her wing,
And, giving the dove a look,
Straightway began to sing.
There was never a bird could pass;
The night was divinely calm;
And the people stood on the grass
To hear that wonderful psalm.
The nightingale did not care,
She only sang to the skies;
Her song ascended there,
And there she fixed her eyes.
The people that stood below
She knew but little about;
And this tale has a moral, I know,
If you’ll try and find it out.
— Jean Ingelou

V : : The Nightingale and the Glow-worm
by William Cowper

A Nightingale, that all day long
Had cheer’d the village with his song,
Nor yet at eve his note suspended,
Nor yet when eventide was ended,
Began to feel, as well he might,
The keen demands of appetite;
When, looking eagerly around,
He spied far off, upon the ground,
A something shining in the dark,
And knew the glow-worm by his spark;
So stooping down from hawthorn top,
He thought to put him in his crop.
The worm, aware of his intent,
Harangu’d him thus , right eloquent —

Did you admire my lamp, quoth he,
As much as I your minstrelsy,
You would abhor to do me wrong,
As much as I to spoil your song;
For ’twas the self-same pow’r divine
Taught you to sing, and me to shine;
That you with music, I with light,
Might beautify and cheer the night.
The songster heard his short oration,
And, warbling out his approbation,
Releas’d him, as my story tells,
And found a supper somewhere else.

Hence jarring sectaries may learn
Their real int’rest to discern;
That brother should not war with brother,
And worry and devour each other;
But sing and shine by sweet consent,
Till life’s poor transient night is spent,
Respecting in each other’s case
The gifts of nature and of grace.

Those Christians best deserve the name
Who studiously make peace their aim;
Peace, both the duty and the prize
Of him that creeps and him that flies.

— William Cowper

V* : : The Nightingale
by Mark Akenside

To-night retired, the queen of heaven
With young Endymion stays;
And now to Hesper it is given
Awhile to rule the vacant sky,
Till she shall to her lamp supply
A stream of brighter rays….
Propitious send thy golden ray,
Thou purest light above:
Let no false flame seduce to stray
Where gulf or steep lie hid for harm;
But lead where music’s healing charm
May soothe afflicted love.
To them, by many a grateful song
In happier seasons vowed,
These lawns, Olympia’s haunt, belong:
Oft by yon silver stream we walked,
Or fixed, while Philomela talked,
Beneath yon copses stood.
Nor seldom, where the beechen boughs
That roofless tower invade,
We came, while her enchanting Muse
The radiant moon above us held:
Till, by a clamorous owl compelled,
She fled the solemn shade.
But hark! I hear her liquid tone!
Now, Hesper, guide my feet
Down the red marl with moss o’ergrown,
Through yon wild thicket next the plain,
Whose hawthorns choke the winding lane
Which leads to her retreat.
See the green space: on either hand
Enlarged it spreads around:
See, in the midst she takes her stand,
Where one old oak his awful shade
Extends o’er half the level mead,
Enclosed in woods profound.
Hark! how through many a melting note
She now prolongs her lays:
How sweetly down the void they float!
The breeze their magic path attends;
The stars shine out; the forest bends;
The wakeful heifers gaze.
Whoe’er thou art whom chance may bring
To this sequestered spot,
If then the plaintive Siren sing,
O softly tread beneath her bower
And think of Heaven’s disposing power,
Of man’s uncertain lot.
O think, o’er all this mortal stage
What mournful scenes arise:
What ruin waits on kingly rage;
How often virtue dwells with woe;
How many griefs from knowledge flow;
How swiftly pleasure flies!
O sacred bird! let me at eve,
Thus wandering all alone,
Thy tender counsel oft receive,
Bear witness to thy pensive airs,
And pity Nature’s common cares,
Till I forget my own.
— Mark Akenside

V* * : : On a Nightingale in April
by William Sharp

The yellow moon is a dancing phantom
Down secret ways of the flowing shade;
And the waveless stream has a murmuring whisper
Where the alders wave.
Not a breath, not a sigh, save the slow stream’s whisper:
Only the moon is a dancing blade
That leads a host of the Crescent warriors
To a phantom raid.
Out of the Lands of Faerie a summons,
A long, strange cry that thrills through the glade:—
The gray-green glooms of the elm are stirring,
Newly afraid.
Last heard, white music, under the olives
Where once Theocritus sang and played—
Thy Thracian song is the old new wonder,
O moon-white maid!
— William Sharp

V* * * : : To the Nightingale
by William Drummond

Dear chorister, who from those shadows sends,
Ere that the blushing morn dare show her light,
Such sad lamenting strains, that night attends,
Become all ear, stars stay to hear thy plight:
If one whose grief even reach of thought transcends,
Who ne’er, not in a dream, did taste delight,
May thee importune who like care pretends,
And seems to joy in woe, in woe’s despite;
Tell me (so may thou fortune milder try,
And long, long sing) for what thou thus complains,
Since, winter gone, the sun in dappled sky
Now smiles on meadows, mountains, woods, and plains?
The bird, as if my questions did her move,
With trembling wings sobbed forth, I love! I love!”
— William Drummond

*X : : Song
by Hartley Coleridge

‘Tis sweet to hear the merry lark,
That bids a blithe good-morrow;
But sweeter to hark, in the twinkling dark,
To the soothing song of sorrow.
Oh nightingale! What doth she ail?
And is she sad or jolly?
For ne’er on earth was sound of mirth
So like to melancholy.
The merry lark, he soars on high,
No worldly thought o’ertakes him;
He sings aloud to the clear blue sky,
And the daylight that awakes him.
As sweet a lay, as loud, as gay,
The nightingale is trilling;
With feeling bliss, no less than his,
Her little heart is thrilling.
Yet ever and anon, a sigh
Peers through her lavish mirth;
For the lark’s bold song is of the sky,
And hers is of the earth.
By night and day, she tunes her lay,
To drive away all sorrow;
For bliss, alas! to-night must pass,
And woe may come to-morrow.
— Hartley Coleridge

X : : Philomel
by Richard Barnfield

As it fell upon a day
In the merry month of May,
Sitting in a pleasant shade
Which a grove of myrtles made,
Beasts did leap and birds did sing,
Trees did grow and plants did spring;
Everything did banish moan
Save the Nightingale alone:
She, poor bird, as all forlorn
Leaned her breast up—till a thorn,
And there sung the doleful’st ditty,
That to hear it was great pity.
Fie, fie, fie! now would she cry;
Tereu, Tereu! by and by;
That to hear her so complain
Scarce I could from tears refrain;
For her griefs so lively shown
Made me think upon mine own.
Ah! thought I, thou mourn’st in vain,
None takes pity on thy pain:
Senseless trees they cannot hear thee,
Ruthless beasts they will not cheer thee:
King Pandion he is dead,
All thy friends are lapped in lead;
All thy fellow birds do sing
Careless of thy sorrowing:
Even so, poor bird, like thee,
None alive will pity me.
— Richard Banfield

X* : :

Philomela : Matthew Arnold : : Bird Poems : :

Matthew Arnold ( 1822 – 1888 ) English poet and critic. Original Publication: People Disc – HB0331 (Photo by Rischgitz/Getty Images ) : From poetryfoundation.org : : As one of the major Victorian writers, Matthew Arnold is unique in that his reputation rests equally upon his poetry and his poetry criticism. Only a quarter of his productive life was given to writing poetry, but many of the same values, attitudes, and feelings that are expressed in his poems achieve a fuller or more balanced formulation in his prose. : G.K. Chesterton said that under his surface raillery Arnold was, “even in the age of Carlyle and Ruskin, perhaps the most serious man alive.” H.J. Muller declared that “if in an age of violence the attitudes he engenders cannot alone save civilization, it is worth saving chiefly because of such attitudes.”One 1980 Critic said, “his first choice “The Poetical Works of Matthew Arnold (1950)”, because “Arnold’s longer poems may be an acquired taste, but once the nut has been cracked their power is extraordinary.”. : Matthew Arnold is best-remembered for his poem, ‘Dover Beach’.

**‘Dover Beach’ solidified Arnold’s place in the history of 19th-century poetry.**

Philomela : : By Matthew Arnold : :
Hark! ah, the nightingale—
The tawny-throated!
Hark, from that moonlit cedar what a burst!
What triumph! hark!—what pain!

O wanderer from a Grecian shore,
Still, after many years, in distant lands,
Still nourishing in thy bewilder’d brain
That wild, unquench’d, deep-sunken, old-world pain—

Say, will it never heal?
And can this fragrant lawn
With its cool trees, and night,
And the sweet, tranquil Thames,
And moonshine, and the dew,
To thy rack’d heart and brain
Afford no balm?

Dost thou to-night behold,
Here, through the moonlight on this English grass,
The unfriendly palace in the Thracian wild?
Dost thou again peruse
With hot cheeks and sear’d eyes
The too clear web, and thy dumb sister’s shame?
Dost thou once more assay
Thy flight, and feel come over thee,
Poor fugitive, the feathery change
Once more, and once more seem to make resound
With love and hate, triumph and agony,
Lone Daulis, and the high Cephissian vale?
Listen, Eugenia—
How thick the bursts come crowding through the leaves!
Again—thou hearest?
Eternal passion!
Eternal pain!

“Philomela”A 4 Stanzas Verse without rhyme , A Bird Poem By Matthew Arnold ( 1822 – 1888 ) is About a Greek Myth of ‘Philomela‘, the princess of Athens, turning into a nightingale. Philomela has classically been associated with unlawful passion, betrayal, and revenge. : A narrator encounters a nightingale in the woods in England, and construes it’s calls for mourning. The narrator speaks to this nightingale, as if it is the avtar of the Greek mythological figure Philomela. Because of the violence associated with the myth, the song of the nightingale is often depicted or interpreted as a sorrowful lament. Coincidentally, in nature, the female nightingale is mute and only the male of the species sings.

The symbol of the nightingale and the story of Philomela frequently appear as one of the most recognizable direct and figurative symbol in literary, artistic, and musical works in the Western canon from antiquity to the modern era. : :

Philomela was the sister of Procne, who married the Thracian king, Tereus. After being married for a number of years and living in Thrace, Procne wanted to see her sister, Philomela. Tereus went to retrieve Philomela from Athens and on the way back Tereus assaulted Philomela in a small cabin in the woods. He then abandoned her and cut out her tongue. After this tragedy had occurred in the life of Philomela she wove her story into a tapestry and had it delivered to her sister in Thrace. Procne, wanting to take revenge on her husband, killed her son by Tereus and served the boy to his father during a meal. Tereus found out what had happened and attempted to kill Procne. The gods saved the two women by turning Philomela into a nightingale and Procne into a swallow. Tereus was transformed into a hoopoe, another type of bird. The bird is asked if still she feels the pain of her past life or if this beautiful English panorama relieves any of her sufferings. He believes the former to be the case and calls upon the Roman Christian Saint Eugenia to help remove some portion of Philomela, the nightingale’s agony. A narrator senses from the bird that it/she is experiencing equal parts agony and triumph from the memories of the past. : : : :

Stanza 1 : : ” Hark! ah, the nightingale— 1
The tawny-throated! 2
Hark, from that moonlit cedar what a burst!3
What triumph! hark!—what pain!”4 : : lines 1 To 4 : : : :

About “Hark”, A sound of Nightingale “The tawny – throated !” ( brownish Orange throat & feathers ) bird whose sound is heard ( “bursts !”) as if ,”from moonlit cedar”( tree ), “hark” like a “triumph !”, but with “pain” The narrator understands this triumph existing with pain very well. It is out of an assault and victory to two sisters, Philomela & procne . : : ❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹

Stanza 2 : : ” O wanderer from a Grecian shore, 5
Still, after many years, in distant lands, 6
Still nourishing in thy bewilder’d brain 7
That wild, unquench’d, deep-sunken, old-world pain—” 8 : : lines 5 To 8 : : : :

About narrator describing Philomela, the Nightingale 💔 ,” wanderer from the Grecian shore.” ( line 5 ) “after many years” passing across the world ( “in distant Lands”: line 6 ) starting from Greece To the English Woods visited by a narrator : Philomela, the Nightingale is still nourishing in her bewildered brain ( line 7 ) lost or perplexed with conflicts / That “wild, unquenched , that is unsatisfied , still burning with fire 🔥 deep – sunken ( deeply set ) , old word pain–” ( line 8 ) The paining sensitivity ( brain ) torn from the woman ♀️ and set up with the nightingale is deeply set : In a sense, Even the years have not healed the wounds which is still stirring up as an “old -world pain” : : : :

Stanza 3 : : ” Say, will it never heal? 9
And can this fragrant lawn 10
With its cool trees, and night, 11
And the sweet, tranquil Thames, 12
And moonshine, and the dew, 13
To thy rack’d heart and brain 14
Afford no balm?” 15 : : lines 9 To 15 : : : :

About A narrator’s deep sympathy and great concern for the old pain from the deeply set wounds that would perhaps refuse to go for ever as it seems never to heal in coming times. : : A New South land of England with it’s “fragrant lawn… cool trees, and night”( lines 10 & 11 ) as well as the sweet “tranquil Thames”River of the area cannot heal her. ( line 12 ) Perhaps the “moonshine, and the dew” ( line 13 ) can “afford” a “balm” to her emotionally wracked ( ” racked” ) heart and brain ( lines 14 & 15 ) : : : :

Stanza 4 : : ” Dost thou to-night behold, 16
Here, through the moonlight on this English grass, 17
The unfriendly palace in the Thracian wild? 18
Dost thou again peruse 19
With hot cheeks and sear’d eyes 20
The too clear web, and thy dumb sister’s shame? 21
Dost thou once more assay 22
Thy flight, and feel come over thee, 23
Poor fugitive, the feathery change 24
Once more, and once more seem to make resound 25
With love and hate, triumph and agony, 26
Lone Daulis, and the high Cephissian vale? 27
Listen, Eugenia— 28
How thick the bursts come crowding through the leaves! 29
Again—thou hearest? 30
Eternal passion! 31
Eternal pain! ” 32 : : lines 16 To 32 : : : :

About The two sister’s great grief of Centuries, the shame while avenging in retaliation , Love and hate, the agony and the triumph – Eternal passion ! and Eternal pain ! ” elaborately fixed in a suffering women and also heard in the singing cry of Philomela, the Nightingale , the grieving women’s new embodiments of the birds. In the very tragic Mythological Story from the old world of Greeks. : : “Lone Daulis” ( line 27 ) is the hometown of Tereus, the Thracian king that assaulted Philomela. In “Cephissian vale.” ( line 27 ) Cephissian refers to both Cephissus, an ancient river God of Greece who fathered a daughter named, Daulis, for whom Tereus’s home town is named, as well as a river that runs through the Attica / Athens of Greece which is the home of Philomela. It was in Daulis that Procne fed her own son to her husband, Tereus, and it was from the area of Cephissus that both sisters came. : :

Philomela , the nightingale is still reminded “through the moonlight on this English grass” ( line 17 ) of what happened to her in the “Thracian wild,” in the land ruled by King Thrace. : : This place reminds her of her past and forces her to relive, “With hot cheeks and sear’d eyes,”( line 20 ) , that is heated cheeks and burning eyes of the changed colours with scorching heat, from which she had been crying for all that happened to her in the tragic course of events and to her dumb sister to her shame ( line 21 ) who became vindictive to get revenge in retaliation.

The Roman martyr, Saint Eugenia was beheaded after converting to Christianity in the sameway , Philomela did what she believed was right, and was punished for it, so too did St. Eugenia. There is a call upon in supplication with prayer to Saint Eugenia; begging her to stop the passion and pain in Philomela, the crying Nightingale. : : In profound words of begging , ” Listen, Eugenia— 28
How thick the bursts come crowding through the leaves! 29
Again—thou hearest? 30
Eternal passion! 31
Eternal pain! ” 32

Dear Readers, if you are moved by philomela’s hurts and sufferings , let us together with A Narrator of a story of great grief , crying and singing through The Nightingale, hope to beg and pray for her what the gods of the past could not restore her peace by stopping some of her anguish. 😦😧 😢 😭

“Philomela”, A Bird Poem by Matthew Arnold Information Appreciation and poem Analysis Presented by V Jayaraj Pune India October 5 , 2023 : : : : : : : :

The Frog And The Nightingale : Vikram Seth : : Bird Poems : :

The Frog And The Nightingale : : By Vikram Sheth Kolkata, India.

Once upon a time a frog
Croaked away in Bingle Bog
Every night from dusk to dawn
He croaked awn and awn and awn
Other creatures loathed his voice,
But, alas, they had no choice,
And the crass cacophony
Blared out from the sumac tree
At whose foot the frog each night
Minstrelled on till morning night

Neither stones nor prayers nor sticks.
Insults or complaints or bricks
Stilled the frogs determination
To display his heart’s elation.
But one night a nightingale
In the moonlight cold and pale
Perched upon the sumac tree
Casting forth her melody
Dumbstruck sat the gaping frog
And the whole admiring bog
Stared towards the sumac, rapt,

And, when she had ended, clapped,
Ducks had swum and herons waded
To her as she serenaded
And a solitary loon
Wept, beneath the summer moon.
Toads and teals and tiddlers, captured
By her voice, cheered on, enraptured:
“Bravo! ” “Too divine! ” “Encore! “
So the nightingale once more,
Quite unused to such applause,
Sang till dawn without a pause.

Next night when the Nightingale
Shook her head and twitched her tail,
Closed an eye and fluffed a wing
And had cleared her throat to sing
She was startled by a croak.
“Sorry – was that you who spoke? “
She enquired when the frog
Hopped towards her from the bog.
“Yes,” the frog replied. “You see,
I’m the frog who owns this tree
In this bog I’ve long been known
For my splendid baritone
And, of course, I wield my pen
For Bog Trumpet now and then”

“Did you… did you like my song? “
“Not too bad – but far too long.
The technique was fine of course,
But it lacked a certain force”.
“Oh! ” the nightingale confessed.
Greatly flattered and impressed
That a critic of such note
Had discussed her art and throat:
“I don’t think the song’s divine.
But – oh, well – at least it’s mine”.

“That’s not much to boast about”.
Said the heartless frog. “Without
Proper training such as I
– And few others can supply.
You’ll remain a mere beginner.
But with me you’ll be a winner”
“Dearest frog”, the nightingale
Breathed: “This is a fairy tale –
And you are Mozart in disguise
Come to earth before my eyes”.

“Well I charge a modest fee.”
“Oh! ” “But it won’t hurt, you’ll see”
Now the nightingale inspired,
Flushed with confidence, and fired
With both art and adoration,
Sang – and was a huge sensation.
Animals for miles around
Flocked towards the magic sound,
And the frog with great precision
Counted heads and charged admission.

Though next morning it was raining,
He began her vocal training.
“But I can’t sing in this weather”
“Come my dear – we’ll sing together.
Just put on your scarf and sash,
Koo-oh-ah! ko-ash! ko-ash! “
So the frog and nightingale
Journeyed up and down the scale
For six hours, till she was shivering
and her voice was hoarse and quivering.

Though subdued and sleep deprived,
In the night her throat revived,
And the sumac tree was bowed,
With a breathless, titled crowd:
Owl of Sandwich, Duck of Kent,
Mallard and Milady Trent,
Martin Cardinal Mephisto,
And the Coot of Monte Cristo,
Ladies with tiaras glittering
In the interval sat twittering –
And the frog observed them glitter
With a joy both sweet and bitter.

Every day the frog who’d sold her
Songs for silver tried to scold her:
“You must practice even longer
Till your voice, like mine grows stronger.
In the second song last night
You got nervous in mid-flight.
And, my dear, lay on more trills:
Audiences enjoy such frills.
You must make your public happier:
Give them something sharper snappier.
We must aim for better billings.
You still owe me sixty shillings.”

Day by day the nightingale
Grew more sorrowful and pale.
Night on night her tired song
Zipped and trilled and bounced along,
Till the birds and beasts grew tired
At a voice so uninspired
And the ticket office gross
Crashed, and she grew more morose –
For her ears were now addicted
To applause quite unrestricted,
And to sing into the night
All alone gave no delight.

Now the frog puffed up with rage.
“Brainless bird – you’re on the stage –
Use your wits and follow fashion.
Puff your lungs out with your passion.”
Trembling, terrified to fail,
Blind with tears, the nightingale
Heard him out in silence, tried,
Puffed up, burst a vein, and died.

Said the frog: “I tried to teach her,
But she was a stupid creature –
Far too nervous, far too tense.
Far too prone to influence.
Well, poor bird – she should have known
That your song must be your own.
That’s why I sing with panache:
“Koo-oh-ah! ko-ash! ko-ash! “
And the foghorn of the frog
Blared unrivalled through the bog.

Vikram Seth

“The Frog And The Nightingale” 140 lines Bird Poem, Written in 1994, in the Rhyme Scheme of AABBCCDD , An Allegorical Poem By Indian Poet Vikram Seth is About feelings of self-confidence and selfishness. It is a fable about a frog and a nightingale and was originally published by Evergreen Publications, and was later used by the Ministry of Education in India as a poem for school students in the Class 10th CBSE English text book. It talks about believing in oneself, as well as a cautionary story about chances and the dangers of being exploited. ‘The Frog and the Nightingale’ talks about a frog with an unpleasant voice. The frog also feels jealous of nightingale’s popularity. He is also very cruel and greedy as he forces the poor nightingale to sing day and night without taking rest in order to make more money. In this way, he is not a likeable character. On the other hand, the nightingale is unconfident, timid and shy. The Nightingale is depicted as innocent and naive. She is unaware of her own potential and the intentions of others. She is easily flattered by the frog’s praise and believes that he genuinely wants to help her improve her singing.

The Wikipedia’s Article summaries The poem as can be seen as exposing the role of critics towards any fresh talent; it can be read as exploitation of a simple, genuine talent by a personal gain or as a poem about a jealous person who does not let real talent flourish by discouraging and finally eliminating it. There is another subject the poet touched upon: a lack of confidence that leads to disaster and the poet comments that one must recognise one’s own capabilities and should not try to emulate others. The poem is targeted at a young audience and teaches how to keep clear of cunning people who can exploit one’s talents to their benefit. The use of animal characters in the poem is to appeal to a younger audience. The main characters are the frog and the nightingale, where the frog represents the cunning capitalist mind and the nightingale a vulnerable artist. : [original research?] : The arrogant frog has been ruling the bog and torturing its residents with his cacophonous singing. The arrival of the nightingale and her singing provides the creatures in the bog a pleasant break who admire her sweet voice. The frog approaches her and appreciates her like a critic making her feeling flattered. He manipulates her making her sing for him in a concert and earns money by selling tickets. The poor creature does not know how she is being manipulated by the frog and sings till she has lost her voice and health. The frog pushes her to the verge where her health and energy fail her and she dies. The poem leaves behind a lesson that while it is good to be talented one must also watch one’s weaknesses and instead of feeling flattered must cautiously tread one’s way towards one’s target. The nightingale was vulnerable to flattery and fell victim to the frog’s manipulation. : : : :

Notes for each of the lines Pending visit this post again later on to enjoy the appreciation of the poem V Jayaraj Pune India October , 4 , 2023 : : : :

The Nightingale , A Conversation Poem : S T Coleridge : : Bird Poems : :

**Drawing of a nightingale : Löschen) (Aktuell) 19:54, 29. Aug 2004 . . Franz Xaver . . 688 x 930 (72397 Byte) • Public domain**

The Nightingale
A Conversation Poem, April, 1798

No cloud, no relique of the sunken day
Distinguishes the West, no long thin slip
Of sullen light, no obscure trembling hues.
Come, we will rest on this old mossy bridge!
You see the glimmer of the stream beneath,
But hear no murmuring: it flows silently.
O’er its soft bed of verdure. All is still.
A balmy night! and though the stars be dim,
Yet let us think upon the vernal showers
That gladden the green earth, and we shall find
A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.
And hark! the Nightingale begins its song,
‘Most musical, most melancholy’ bird!
A melancholy bird? Oh! idle thought!
In Nature there is nothing melancholy.
But some night-wandering man whose heart was pierced
With the remembrance of a grievous wrong,
Or slow distemper, or neglected love,
(And so, poor wretch! filled all things with himself,
And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale
Of his own sorrow) he, and such as he,
First named these notes a melancholy strain.
And many a poet echoes the conceit;
Poet who hath been building up the rhyme
When he had better far have stretched his limbs
Beside a brook in mossy forest-dell,
By sun or moon-light, to the influxes
Of shapes and sounds and shifting elements
Surrendering his whole spirit, of his song
And of his fame forgetful! so his fame
Should share in Nature’s immortality,
A venerable thing! and so his song
Should make all Nature lovelier, and itself
Be loved like Nature! But ’twill not be so;
And youths and maidens most poetical,
Who lose the deepening twilights of the spring
In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still
Full of meek sympathy must heave their sighs
O’er Philomela’s pity-pleading strains.

My Friend, and thou, our Sister! we have learnt
A different lore: we may not thus profane
Nature’s sweet voices, always full of love
And joyance! ‘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!
And I know a grove
Of large extent, hard by a castle huge,
Which the great lord inhabits not; and so
This grove is wild with tangling underwood,
And the trim walks are broken up, and grass,
Thin grass and king-cups grow within the paths.
But never elsewhere in one place I knew
So many nightingales; and far and near,
In wood and thicket, over the wide grove,
They answer and provoke each other’s song,
With skirmish and capricious passagings,
And murmurs musical and swift jug jug,
And one low piping sound more sweet than all
Stirring the air with such a harmony,
That should you close your eyes, you might almost
Forget it was not day! On moonlight bushes,
Whose dewy leaflets are but half-disclosed,
You may perchance behold them on the twigs,
Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright and full,
Glistening, while many a glow-worm in the shade
Lights up her love-torch.
A most gentle Maid,
Who dwelleth in her hospitable home
Hard by the castle, and at latest eve
(Even like a Lady vowed and dedicate
To something more than Nature in the grove)
Glides through the pathways; she knows all their notes,
That gentle Maid! and oft, a moment’s space,
What time the moon was lost behind a cloud,
Hath heard a pause of silence; till the moon
Emerging, a hath awakened earth and sky
With one sensation, and those wakeful birds
Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy,
As if some sudden gale had swept at once
A hundred airy harps! And she hath watched
Many a nightingale perch giddily
On blossomy twig still swinging from the breeze,
And to that motion tune his wanton song
Like tipsy Joy that reels with tossing head.

Farewell! O Warbler! till tomorrow eve,
And you, my friends! farewell, a short farewell!
We have been loitering long and pleasantly,
And now for our dear homes.That strain again!
Full fain it would delay me! My dear babe,
Who, capable of no articulate sound,
Mars all things with his imitative lisp,
How he would place his hand beside his ear,
His little hand, the small forefinger up,
And bid us listen! And I deem it wise
To make him Nature’s play-mate. He knows well
The evening-star; and once, when he awoke
In most distressful mood (some inward pain
Had made up that strange thing, an infant’s dream)
I hurried with him to our orchard-plot,
And he beheld the moon, and, hushed at once,
Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silently,
While his fair eyes, that swam with undropped tears,
Did glitter in the yellow moon-beam! Well!
It is a father’s tale: But if that Heaven
Should give me life, his childhood shall grow up
Familiar with these songs, that with the night
He may associate joy. Once more, farewell,
Sweet Nightingale! once more, my friends! farewell.

— S T Coleridge

“The Nightingale “Written in April , 1798 Originally included in the first edition of Lyrical Ballads, which he published with William Wordsworth first appeared in 1798, is A Conversation Poem By Samuel Taylor Coleridge and is About Coleridge’s experience of nature. The poem disputes the traditional idea that nightingales are connected to the idea of melancholy. Midway through the poem, the narrator stops discussing the nightingale in order to describe a mysterious female and a gothic scene. After the narrator is returned to his original train of thought by the nightingale’s song, he recalls a moment when he took his crying son out to see the moon, which immediately filled the child with joy. Critics have found the poem either decent with little complaint or as one of his better poems containing beautiful lines.

The Nightingale was written in April 1798 during the same time Coleridge wrote Fears in Solitude. During this time, France threatened to invade Britain; the belief held by many Britons was that France would invade the Irish kingdom, which was experiencing rebellion at the time. These fears of an invasion manifested in April 1798 and Britons began to arm themselves. During April, Coleridge traveled to his childhood home at ‘Ottery’ and then went to visit William and Dorothy Wordsworth. It was during this time that Coleridge wrote “Fears in Solitude: Written in April 1798, During the Alarm of an Invasion”.

Originally, Coleridge intended to place Lewti, or the Circassian Love-chaunt in the collection. The Nightingale was published in seven other editions but was altered little. : : Coleridge’s friend Robert Southey described The Nightingale as “tolerable”responding to this lyrical Ballad.: :

The nightingale was used as a sign of melancholy because of its relationship to the legend of Philomela, a rape victim. Although Coleridge corrects the idea of nightingale as melancholic, the poem relies on the tradition and gothic descriptions to guide the poem. Eventually, the nightingale is what brings the narrator back to his topic after diverging from it in a manner similar to John Keats’s use in Ode to a Nightingale. Unlike tradition, the nightingales represented an experience that Coleridge had with his friends, the Wordsworths. During the moment within the poem, a female is described that seems to be a combination of Dorothy and the title character of Christabel. There is no mention of Coleridge’s wife, Sara, which separates The Nightingale from the other Conversation Poems. The poem does mention their child, Hartley, and an incident in which he saw the moon one night. The scene allows the narrator to return to the domestic and to nature. : : After discussing Philomela, the poem lists a series of places that are a possible combination of real places with gothic descriptions. These places include Alfoxden, Enmore Castle, Nether Stowey Castle, and Stogursey Castle along with the grove possibly being connected to Holford Glen or Enmore. The gothic elements of the poem connect it to many of his other works, including Ancient Mariner, “Ballad of the Dark Ladie”, Fears in Solitude, France: An Ode, Frost at Midnight, “Three Graves”, and “Wanderings of Cain”

Coleridge had many sources for the use of a nightingale. Directly, he quotes from John Milton’s Il Penseroso, taking issue with Milton’s portrayal of the bird as “most musical, most melancholy” while explaining in a footnote that he would never want to take issue with Milton. Although the image was used throughout literature, Richard Barnfield’s Ode and James Thomason’s Winter provide two other examples within English literature. Unlike his sources, Coleridge disagrees that the nightingale represents melancholy. This idea created a new tradition that was continued by Wordsworth, and there are connections to many later works which include images found within George Dyer’s Poetic, John Keats’s Ode to a Nightingale, and Leigh Hunt’s Imagination or Fancy. There is also a connection to Coleridge’s earlier poem “To the Nightingale”, a poem that followed the traditional cliche about nightingales and melancholy. : : : :

In the 20th-century, George Watson writes, “‘The Nightingale’ has a scattered air, as if it had been written with an altogether exceptional indifference to design and scale.” Following this, Geoffrey Yarlott claims, “In The Nightingale, where the metaphysic is played down […] it is greatly to the improvement of the poem, and there the mature conversational tone duplicates almost perfectly the shifting flow of natural speech and feeling.”: :

Richard Holmes, when referring to Lyrical Ballads, states: “Yet this final, unsatisfactory mixture did allow a significant third element to enter the collection at a later stage: the intimate, blank verse nature meditations which produced two of the finest individual poems — Coleridge’s ‘The Nightingale’ and Wordsworth’s ‘Tintern Abbey’.”Rosemary Ashton argues that, “Bantering though this is, and, however, beautiful the final lines about Hartley are, ‘The Nightingale’ is as a whole a less successful poem than the other conversation poems. It has rather a blank at the centre, just where the others pivot on a significant controlling idea.”: : : :

The Above information about “The Nightingale” is as per the Wikipedia’s Article.

Notes for the Poem Pending visit this post again later on to enjoy the appreciation of the poem V Jayaraj Pune India October 3 , 2023 : : : :