Anne Kingsmill Finch

Here you will find the Poem To The Nightingale of poet Anne Kingsmill Finch

To The Nightingale

Exert thy Voice, sweet Harbinger of Spring!
 This Moment is thy Time to sing,
 This Moment I attend to Praise,
And set my Numbers to thy Layes.
 Free as thine shall be my Song;
 As thy Musick, short, or long. 

Poets, wild as thee, were born,
 Pleasing best when unconfin'd,
 When to Please is least design'd,
Soothing but their Cares to rest; 
 Cares do still their Thoughts molest,
 And still th' unhappy Poet's Breast,
Like thine, when best he sings, is plac'd against a Thorn.

She begins, Let all be still!
 Muse, thy Promise now fulfill!
Sweet, oh! sweet, still sweeter yet
Can thy Words such Accents fit,
Canst thou Syllables refine,
Melt a Sense that shall retain
Still some Spirit of the Brain, 
Till with Sounds like these it join.
 'Twill not be! then change thy Note;
 Let division shake thy Throat. 
Hark! Division now she tries;
Yet as far the Muse outflies. 

 Cease then, prithee, cease thy Tune;
 Trifler, wilt thou sing till June?
Till thy Bus'ness all lies waste,
And the Time of Building's past!
 Thus we Poets that have Speech, 
Unlike what thy Forests teach,
 If a fluent Vein be shown
 That's transcendant to our own,
Criticize, reform, or preach,
Or censure what we cannot reach.