June Byron. 201 



expiessioiv to his feelings as they arise. He, too, in a 

 certain sense, is a poet, though not in words. And the 

 true ineffable charm of the nightingale's singing is not 

 in the quality of the sound, exquisite as it is, but in 

 the wonder of the communication from the little bird 

 to us. ' What ! ' thinks the human listener, ' can the bird 

 feel all these mighty emotions ? can he feel such glory 

 of triumph, such tender melancholy, such languor of 

 passion ? ' Man, as he listens, quite easily falls under 

 the spell. The very hour and season conspire together 

 against him. It is summer in its richness, it -is night 

 in its beauty and calm. The heart is hushed and sub- 

 dued, the eyes are quite ready to moisten at any 

 suggestion of melancholy, or the imagination to be 

 aroused by any awakening voice. The voice comes 

 mysteriously from an unseen being, the quiet of the 

 night is filled and flooded with it, we are bathed in 

 the sound as in moonlight, and then all our great human 

 feelings are played upon by that tiny creature as an 

 organ is played upon by the organist. 



Some of the very sweetest lines in poetry have been 

 suggested by the nightingale. Byron, from his residence 

 in southern climates, where the song of the bird is bolder 

 and more varied than in England, was familiar with it, 

 and has celebrated it in two of his best-known and most 

 beautiful passages. There is nothing in all poetry more 

 exquisitely finished than the opening lines of ' Parisina.' 

 Byron was always happy in his openings, but this one 

 comes upon the reader with a sudden sweetness, that 

 makes him feel in an instant the delicate firm touch 



