Oh! gentlest nightingale,
Once more thy plaintive tale
Repeat-repeat to me;
It will be passing sweet
My own sad thoughts to greet,
In thy soft melody.

It was but yester morn
Ere I was thus forlorn;
The merry lark I heard,
And then I did thee wrong,
In loving more her song
Than thine, O pensive bird!

For then I was as free,
And blithe and full of glee,
As any larks that sing;
But now a wretch am I,
Nor know for what I sigh,
Nor what a cure may bring.

It was but yesternight
That all my joy took flight,
When Henry bade good-bye;
For when he kiss'd my cheek,
Though nothing did he speak,
I think I heaved a sigh.

To speak not was unkind,
But a word I could not find!
My eyes did speak, I fear;
Yet why am I afraid,
If it was only truth they said?
I am sure there was a tear.

I wish I had not sighed!
I wish I had not cried!
I am always such a child;
He will soon again be here,
Why should I shed a tear,
Why could not I have smiled?

There's the nightingale again!
What a sweet and mournful strain!
The bird must mourn for love;
And the poets say and swear
That love is everywhere-
Around, below, above.

O Love! if now thou art
Hidden within my heart,
When my eyes with sleep are dim,
Spread thy wing, and flee away,
And to my Henry say,
'His Ellen dreams of him.'