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THE NIGHTINGALE. 



art itself, the love of the beautiful, confusedly seen in glimpses, and 

 very keenly felt, are a second aliment, which sustains his soul, and 

 supplies it with a new inspiration. And this is boundless — a day 

 opened on the infinite. 







The true gi-eatness of the artist consists in overshooting his mark, 

 in doing more than he willed ; and, moreover, in passing far beyond 

 the goal, in crossing the limits of the possible, and looking beyond — 

 beyond. 



Hence arise great sorrows, an inexhaustible source of melancholy ; 

 hence the sublime folly of weeping over misfortunes which he has 

 never experienced. Other birds are astonished, and occasionally 

 inquire of him what is the cause of his grief, what does he regret. 

 When free and joyous in his forest-home, he does not the less vouch- 

 safe for his reply the strain which my captive chanted in his 

 silence : 



'■ Lascia che io pianga !" 

 Suffer me, suffer me to weep ! 



