THE NIGUTINGALE. 133 



of morning, when, if we look upward, we may 

 espy the small singer sitting on the bough, and 

 mark the swelling of its throat, as it pours forth 

 the full tide of song. 



■ But the song of tlie bird is so sweet in all 

 its changes, and so loud too, that one can hardly 

 believe it is uttered by so small a minstrel. 

 Sometimes when one would fain sleep, that song 

 has, in spite of our drowsiness, compelled us to 

 listen. Now it seemed so plaintive, so deeply 

 tender, as to justify the epithets of " melancholy 

 bird," with which poets of all ages have so lavishly 

 endowed the singer. But listen for awhile, and 

 that melody has changed, and the " merry night- 

 ingale," the epithet of Chaucer, seems more 

 appropriate, and we can for a moment believe 

 with CJoleridge, — 



" 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 80, poor wretch, fill'd 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 



