Early Sorrows

O NIGHTINGALE! sweet bird—they say, That peace abides with thee; But thou hast brought from day to day A triple woe to me. The first, first woe my spirit knew, My first, first woe was this, My mother never train’d me to A lover’s early bliss. My second woe, my second woe, Was that my trusty steed, Whene’er I mounted, seem’d to show Nor eagerness nor speed. My third, third woe—of all the worst, Is that the maid I woo, The maid I lov’d the best—the first, Is angry with me too. Then grave an early grave for me, Yon whiten’d fields among; In breadth two lances let it be, And just four lances long. And o’er my head let roses grow, There plant the red-rose tree; And at my feet a fount shall flow, O scoop that fount for me! So when a youthful swain appears, The roses he shall wreathe; And when an old man bent with years, He’ll drink the stream beneath.