Story of the Nightingale, Op. 18

O Morning bird, for whom do you sing,
Who do you bless, whose fortune bring?
Your heavy burdens, your parcels dear,
Swiftly discard, hastily fling,
As thirsty we are, and grow thirstier still!
Close fountains fair, our goblets near,
Heed not! these cups please fill,
They never are full, never truly still.
From these we e'er drink, e'er more yearn,
Ours the water's edge, yet still the bowels burn!
'More, more pour! lest should we perish!
Who, whose thirst is this, does it ne'er extiguish!'

O Noon bird, for whom do you sing,
What do you lament, whose elegies ring?
Your fair voice, for whom does it grieve?
The fairer songs, why ne'er resume,
What do you insist, what to conceive?
Why sneer so, and what heartless doom
Of love, of light so sternly sound,
So unflinching, why do you hound,
The child of man! What undeserv'd ire,
in your symphonies sings the choir:
'Flee not fools, but waits the punishment,
All men must, pay for their time ill-spent!'

O Eve's bird, for whom do you sing,
What do you hail, what pale king,
Would earn our praise, would cheat our wine!
O Nightingale, what traitorous wing,
Has done away all our affectionate love,
As so burns my heart, this vile design,
What darkling desire, what cruel ensign,
Now adorns the breast of this heartless dove?
Yet answers the villain, deeply bows,
Sneeringly reminds, so reaps what sows,
'Command me no humane crown, nor thy rules,
Not thy acts, none of thy clowns and fools!'