926 NIGHTINGALE. 



sent our readers with the following trifling 

 poem. 



THE DEATH OF THE NIGHTINGALE. 



Forth in that last glad strain ! 



Thy swelling soul burst forth and fled away, 

 While on the earth reposed 



Thy silent clay. 



'Twas sweet, full sweet to die 



Amid the music of thine own glad heart; 

 To burst the chords of life 



And so depart. 



But where, sweet one ! oh ! where 



Hath fled thy gentle soul? Unto that heaven, 

 Where rose thy hymn so sweet, 



At close of even ? 



Or in some kindred form 



Doth it repose, 'till twilight's quiet hour 

 Shall call it forth again, 



With sweeter power? 



Or 'mid the scenes so loved, 



Dost thou now wander on ethereal wing, 

 And through the moon-lit groves, 



Flit sorrowing? 



