144 With the Nightingales at the Vicarage. 



act of singing had brought its own comfort, nay,, its 

 own delight — the triumphant, mellow, full tones pre- 

 dominated ; the shower of song fell on our ears like 

 sweet rain on the wastes of the desert. 



We at length arose and proceeded down the crescent 

 path that bounds the park, till we stood close to the 

 tree from which the music came, actually touching its 

 leaves. Still, the bird was so rapt in its song that it 

 did not perceive us, or, perceiving us, was so rapt in 

 its delight that human presences were indifferent to it 

 — or, it may be (who knows ?) were even stimulating, 

 as the sense of a sympathetic audience to a great 

 prima donna. 



And doubtless not far off "the music of the moon 

 slept in the plain eggs of the nightingale," as the poet 

 sings ; and that was inspiration too ; for the song we 

 have is ever but the herald of songs to come, and an 

 aid to the brooding love that is active to make them 

 come. With the nightingale, as with the human heart, 

 it sings when it labours to prepare and to perfect the 

 life which shall enjoy the love that it feels within, 

 throbbing and prophetic. 



Still, the music flowed, gathered, swelled ; now 

 piercing clear ; now lowly plaintive ; again, as if calling 

 some loved one who lingered afar; again, as though 

 that loved one were near — were near. Those pipings, 

 trills, and jug-jug-jugs, how impossible it is to repro- 

 duce them, however clearly recalled, and it seemed 

 that, instead of satiating, they grew ever more sweet 

 and intense to ear and heart. We stood — none of us 

 knew how long — close to that sweet heart of minstrelsy ; 

 fearless, unseen of us, yet doubtless seeing us ; and as 

 we were moved more and more, so more and more 

 the music seemed to grow, and swell and quiveringly 



