PERCHING BIRDS. 75 



the oaks, from which they quietly watched me for a few 

 minutes. 



The question has often been discussed as to whether 

 the song of the nightingale is merry or melancholy, and 

 many are the authorities both in poetry and prose who 

 have been ranged on either side of the controversy. I 

 do not presume to decide the matter, or to set aside the 

 verdict of the many well-qualified judges who have ex- 

 pressed themselves on this qucestio vexata ; at the same 

 time, as a close observer, I must reserve to myself the 

 right to differ. My own opinion is, that though it lacks 

 the ringing hilarity of the song thrush, I should never 

 call it melancholy. Coleridge's beautiful lines exactly 

 embody my own thoughts. 



" A melancholy bird ? Oh ! idle thought 

 In Nature there is nothing melancholy. 

 But some night-wandering man, whose heart was pierced 

 With the remembrance of a grievous wrong, 

 Or slow distemper, or neglected love 

 (And so, poor wretch ! filled all things with himself, 

 And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale 

 Of his own sorrow), he, and such as he, 

 First named these notes a melancholy strain, 

 And many a poet echoes the conceit. 

 We have learnt 



A different lore ; we may not thus profane 

 Nature's sweet voices, always full of love 

 And joyance ! 'Tis the merry nightingale 

 That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates 

 With fast thick warble his delicious notes, 

 As he were fearful that an April night 

 Would be too short for him to utter forth 

 His love chant, and disburden his full soul 

 Of all his music ! * * * * 

 ***** Far and near, 

 In wood and thicket, over the wide grove, 

 They answer and provoke each other's songs, 



