A NORTHERN NIGHTINGALE 



And the dusky depths of the cedar thrilled 



As the echoing music rose and rang, 

 And the clouds bent down and their dews distilled 



Like tears of joy, while the cat-bird sang. 



The cat-bird sang in the cedar-tree, 



And never a wave of breezes fleet 

 O'er apple-blossoms, or minor key 



Of flowing water, was half so sweet; 

 And the winds were hushed by his matchless song, 



And the dumb trees sighed 'neath the moonlight pale, 

 While the shadows came in a muffled throng 



To hark to the northern nightingale. 



So blest, so curst by the touch of fate; 



Give note, though thy nest no longer be, 

 Or if thou wander and find no mate, 



And sing alone in the cedar-tree. 

 Aye! tell thy pain to the night forlorn, 



Sing on, sing on, lest thy heart should break, 

 For the breasts of those shall press the thorn 



Who live for naught but the song's own sake. 



127 



