THE NIGHTINGALE. 61 



fill impression of his moon-lighted entrance, and 

 the ravishing song of birds whose notes he had 

 never before heard ; for America, among all her 

 birds of bright plumage and varied melody, can- 

 not boast our unrivalled nightingale. 



THE NIGHTINGALE, 



Beautiful nightingale, who shall recall 

 Thy exquisite strains, on the ear as they fall ! 

 Gently as night-dews descend on the green, 

 Their source like the night-falling dews all unseen. 

 And every note has a cadence as sweet 

 As sounds that gush out where the calm waters meet ; 

 Soul-thrilling tones in deep solitude heard, 

 When by light breezes the waters were stirr'd. 

 Thy home is the wood on the echoing hill, 

 Or the verdant banks of the forest rill: 

 And soft as the south-wind the branches among, 

 Thy plaintive lament goes floating along. 



Beautiful nightingale, who shall pourtray 



All the varying turns of thy flowing lay ! 



And where is the lyxe, whose chords shall reply, 



To the notes of thy changeful melody ! 



We may linger indeed, and listen to thee, 



But the linked chain of thy harmony 



It is not for mortal hand to unbind, 



Nor the clue of thy mazy music to find. 



Thy home is the wood on the echoing hill, 

 Or the verdant banks of the forest rill, 

 And soft as the south-wind the branches among, 

 Thy plaintive lament goes floating along. 



