PHILOMELA LUSCINIA. 303 



And made him like a man abroad at morn 



When first the liquid note — beloved of men — 



Comes flying over many a windy wave 



To Britain, and, in April, suddenly 



Breaks from a coppice gemm'd with green and red, 



And he suspends his converse with a friend — 



Or may be the labour of his hands — 



To think or say ' There is the nightingale,' 



So fared it with Geraint, who thought and said, 



Here, by God's grace, is the one voice for me." 



And, in one of his sonnets, Shakespeare likens it to the voice 

 of grief — 



" It fell upon a day, 

 In the merry month of May, 

 Sitting in a pleasant shade 

 Which a grove of myrtles made, 

 Beasts did leap, and birds did sing, 

 Trees did grow, and plants did spring, 

 Everything did banish moan 

 Save the nightingale alone ; 

 She, poor bird, as all forlorn 

 Leaned her breast against a thorn ; 

 Fy, fy, fy, now would she cry, 

 Ter-e-u, Ter-e-u, Ter-e-u, by-and-by, by-and-by, 

 That to hear her thus complain, 

 Scarce could I from tears refrain ; 

 For her griefs so lovely shown 

 Made me think upon my own. " 



And, in his poem on the rape of Lucrece, he makes her say — 



" Come, Philomel, that sing'st of ravishment, 



Make thy sad grove in my dishevell'd hair ; 



As the dank earth weeps at thy languishment, 



So I at each strain will strain a tear, 



And with deep groans the diapason bear ; 



For, burthen- wise, I'll hum on Tarquin still, 

 While thou on Ter-e-us descan'st better skill." 



And again — 



" By this, lamenting Philomel had ended 

 The well-tuned warble of her nightly sorrow, 

 And solemn night, with slow, sad gait descended 

 To ugly hell ; when lo, the blushing morrow 

 Sends light to all fair eyes that light will borrow ; 

 But cloudy Lucrece shames herself to see, 

 And, therefore, still in night would cloister'd be." 



Another poet also says of the nightingale — 



" Sing on, sweet bird, pour out thy soul among 

 Yon darkling woods, and flood the vacant air 

 With thy rich melody ! 



Sweet bird, sing on ! too soon thy happy mood 

 Must change, thy song must fade, and thou wilt know 

 That love grows cold ; and, voiceless, thou shalt brood 

 Till, at grief's bidding, thy wild song renewed ■ 

 Burst forth once more an ecstacy of woe ! " 



