ROOM IN THE INN. 75 



tendest with thyself alone. Spake I against thy dictum, 

 Jack ? Not in any wise. I decried no measure of 

 that natural and soul-stirring music thou art propping 

 so vigorously. 'Tis the core of what I venerate, and 

 shame be to the man who injures or assails it ! No, 

 Jack, 'twas to the modern innovations I directed my 

 enmity to the mystical machines which fabricate our 

 popular combinations of notes and quavers to the 

 German and Italian natures which are grafted upon our 

 orchestras, and have drunk up the sap and spirit of 

 what is nationally ours. The taste is low fallen, 

 indeed which prefers to the artless simplicity of 

 olden music the corrupt and insipid substitutes so infa- 

 tuatedly cherished by the amateurs of the day. But 

 thy song, Jack thy stave and, mind thee, no extra 

 nourishes or off-shows. 



[LEISTER sitigs.] 



Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing ! 



Meet the morn upon the lea ; 

 Are the emeralds of spring 



On the anglers' trysting-tree ? 

 Tell, sweet thrushes, tell to me, 

 Are -there buds on our willow tree ? 



Buds and birds on the trysting-tree ? 



