Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now, more than ever, seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight, with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad, In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain— To thy high requiem become a sod.
Thou wast not born for death, immortal bird! No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn:
The same that oft-times hath
Charmed magic casements opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in fairy lands forlorn.
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell,
To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Adieu! the fancy can not cheat so well As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision or a waking dream?
Fled is that music-do I wake or sleep?
Prize thou the nightingale,
Who soothes thee with his tale,
And wakes the woods around;
A singing feather, he-a winged and wandering sound:
Whose tender carroling
Sets all ears listening
Unto that living lyre,
Whence flow the airy notes his ecstasies inspire;
Whose shrill, capricious song, Breathes like a flute along,
With many a careless tone
Music of thousand tongues, formed by one tongue alone.
O charming creature rare, Can aught with thee compare?
Thou art all song-thy breast
Thrills for one month o' th' year-is tranquil all the rest.
Thee wondrous we may call- Most wondrous this of all,
That such a tiny throat
Should wake so loud a sound, and pour so loud a note. MARIA TESSELSCHADE VISSCHER-Born in the 16th century.
SIMILE FROM "DIVINA COMMEDIA."
Like as the bird who on her nest all night Had rested, darkling with her tender brood, 'Mid the loved foliage, longing now for light,
To gaze on their dear looks, and bring them food: Sweet task! whose pleasures all its toil repay- Anticipates the dawn, and through the wood Ascending, perches on the topmost spray; There, all impatience, watching to descry The first faint glimmer of approaching day : Thus did my lady toward the southern sky, Erect and motionless, her visage turn;
The mute suspense that filled her wistful eye, Made me like one who waits a friend's return, Lives on this hope, and will no other own. Translation of F. C. GRAY.
DANTE ALIGHIERI, 1265-1321.
I have seen a nightingale, On a sprig of thyme bewail, Seeing the dear nest, which was Hers alone, borne off, alas! By a laborer. I heard,
For this outrage, the poor bird Say a thousand mournful things To the wind, which, on its wings, From her to the guardian of the sky, Bore her melancholy cry- Bore her tender tears. She spake As if her fond heart would break: One while, in a sad, sweet note, Gurgled from her straining throat; She enforced her piteous tale, Mournful prayer, and plaintive wail; One while with the shrill dispute, Quite outwearied, she was mute; Then afresh for her dear brood, Her harmonious shrieks renewed.
Or when rising shrill and shriller, Other music dies away- Other songs grow still and stiller, Songster of the night and day!
Till-all sunk to silence round thee- Not a whisper-not a word— Not a leaf-fall to confound thee- Breathless all-thou only heard.
Tell me, thou who failest never, Minstrel of the songs of spring! Did the world see ages ever,
When thy voice forgot to sing?
Is there in your woodland history Any Homer, whom ye read? Has your music aught of mystery? Has it measure, cliff, and creed?
NEST OF THE NIGHTINGALE.
Up this green woodland side let's softly rove, And list the nightingale; she dwells just here. Hush! let the wood-gate softly clap, for fear The noise might drive her from her home of love; For here I've heard her many a merry year- At morn, at eve-nay, all the live-long day, As though she lived on song. This very spot, Just where the old-man's-beard all wildly trails Rude arbors o'er the road, and stops the way; And where the child its blue-bell flowers hath got, Laughing and creeping through the mossy rails; There have I hunted like a very boy,
Creeping on hands and knees through matted thorn, To find her nest, and see her feed her young, And vainly did I many hours employ :
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