The Nightingale Poem by Caroline Oliphant

No! it is not when day is flinging
Brightness o'er the radiant plain,
'Tis not when Nature's choir is singing,
The night-bird pours her sweetest strain.

It is when shades of eve are spreading
A slumbering mist upon the ground:
'Tis when the moon is softly shedding
Light, and a breathing stillness round.

Then o'er the hush'd air gently stealing,
Its sweetest cadence floats along,
Oh! who has heard those strains of feeling,
And wish'd for gayer warbler's song?

Thus, it is not when Fortune smiling,
Casts her beaming glances round,
'Tis not 'mid Pleasure's strains beguiling,
The Spirit's holy notes are found.

But when Prosperity's gay splendour
Has faded into Sorrow's night,
And pure Religion's beam, more tender,
Round us sheds her silvery light.
Oh! then the spirit's voice from heaven,
Swells on the bosom calm and lone;
Who that has heard those songs of even,
Would ask the day-bird's livelier tone?