PERCHING BIRDS. 75 
the oaks, from which they quietly watched me for a few 
minutes. 
The question has often been discussed as to whether 
the song of the nightingale is merry or melancholy, and 
many are the authorities both in poetry and prose who 
have been ranged on either side of the controversy. I 
do not presume to decide the matter, or to set aside the 
verdict of the many well-qualified judges who have ex- 
pressed themselves on this questio vexata ; at the same 
time, as a close observer, I must reserve to myself the 
right to differ. My own opinion is, that though it lacks 
the ringing hilarity of the song thrush, I should never 
call it melancholy. Coleridge’s beautiful lines exactly 
embody my own thoughts. 
“A melancholy bird? Oh! idle thought— 
In Nature there is nothing melancholy. 
But some night-wandering man, whose heart was pierced 
With the remembrance of a grievous wrong, 
Or slow distemper, or neglected love 
(And so, poor wretch! filled all things with himself, 
And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale 
Of his own sorrow), he, and such as he, 
First named these notes a melancholy strain, 
And many a poet echoes the conceit. 
We have learnt 
A different lore; we may not thus profane 
Nature’s sweet voices, always full of love 
And joyance! ’Tis the merry nightingale 
That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates 
With fast thick warble his delicious notes, 
As he were fearful that an April night 
Would be too short for him to utter forth 
His love chant, and disburden his full soul 
Of all his music! * * * i 
* * * * * Far and near, 
In wood and thicket, over the wide grove, 
They answer and provoke each other’s songs, 
