THE goldfinch swells his little throat,
And loudly pours his rural note;
High poiz'd above his nest in air,
The shrill lark chaunts his matins clear;
At evening brown, in woodland dale
Soft gurgling trills her amorous tale
The solitary nightingale;
But what avails, ye feather'd throng
Of warblers wild, your feeble song?
Our varying passions can ye move
With warmer hope, or fonder love?
Or run your notes th' enchanting round
Through all the labyrinths of sound?
As breathes some soft angelic strain,
When Midnight spreads her solemn reign,
Entranc'd the lonely hermit lies,
And tastes ideal paradise,
When at Armida's feet he lay,
So sigh'd Rinaldo's soul away;
His tongue in mute attention bound,
His ear in rapture drank the sound,
While magic numbers lull'd the sense,
And held swift thought in sweet suspence.