The hand that snatched you from me among the thickets, O nightingale, was envious of my joy. You filled my breast with sweet-sounding songs, and my sorrowful spirit with your honey-flowing melody. Therefore let throngs of birds come together from every side to mourn you with me in Pierian song. Though scorned for your colour, you were not scorned in your singing. A broad voice resounded from your narrow throat, repeating its sweet melody with the Muse's varied measure, and ever singing the Creator with its mouth. In the dusky nights it never ceased from its odes, a voice venerable for holy things, O grace and glory. What wonder is it, if cherubim and seraphim praise the Thunderer with unending voice, when yours could do so thus?