Then in our sweet birchen tree
Sang the ouzel tenderly,
And I need not tell to thee
How he spoke most brilliantly!
And the nightingale at night
Sang smooth music in delight,
While, with love’s united strain,
We returned his ‘psalm’ again!
Time now poignantly bereaves
Of their life the slender leaves,
Stems and boughs alone remain
In sad winter’s sullen rain;
Age holds there tyrannic sway,
Whirlwinds toss its roof away,
And the ouzel’s pride is o’er,
[1]With his head befleck’d with gold,
And the nightingale no more
Rhymes indites—it is too cold!
Still within my memory dwell
Days of youth, and love to thee—
Charms that all on earth excel—
Source of all my misery!
Of that long and luckless suit,
Care and anguish are the fruit—
Slumber from my eyelids scared,
And the grave—it is prepared!
- ↑ This line is a literal translation; though it does not suit the common ouzel, it may apply to the ‘rose-coloured ouzel,’ whose head is glossed with blue, purple, and green. Bewick, p. 95. In a poet so true to nature, this line still leaves a difficulty.
