NIGHTINGALE. 227 



When in the deep midnight 



My steps have wandered 'neath the arching 



trees, 

 Oft have I heard sweet sounds 



Float on the breeze. 



And then, enwrapt, I thought 



Them lays of disembodied souls of those 

 Whose sylvan songs to God 



All pure uprose! 



Perchance, whene'er again 



I seek the woods, upon my wond'ring ear 

 May fall thy spirit song, 



In accents clear. 



Thine was a hapless end; 



For like to fire, thy love of song consumed 

 Thy own pure heart, and thou 



Didst die self-doomed! 



Thine was the death of those 



Who seek for earthly fame, and wildly crave 

 Men's worship here, but find 



A nameless grave. 

 Better to look on high, 



With hopes and thoughts to One, Almighty 



given, 

 And immortality 



Is thine in heaven! 



