THE VALLEY OF NIGHTINGALES. 423 



Hearest thou the blue Ring-Dove in yonder tree cooing ; 



The Red.breast — the Hedge-Sparrow, warble their 

 song; 

 The Cuckoo, with sameness of note ever wooing; 



Yet ever to pleasure such notes will belong ? 



And this is the Valley of Nightingales? — listen 

 To those full swelling sounds — with those pauses 

 between ; 

 Where the bright waving shrubs 'midst the pale hazels 

 glisten, 

 There oft may a troop of the songsters be seen. 



Seest thou yon proud Ship on the stream adown sailing, 



O'er ocean her course to strange climes she now 



bends ; 



Oh ! who may describe the deep sobs or heart wailing, 



Her departure hath wrought amongst lovers and 



friends ? 



The rocks now re-echo the songs of the sailor, 

 As he chearfully bounds on his watery way ; 



But the Maiden ! — ah what shall that echo avail her, 

 When absence and sorrow have worn out the day ? 



Behold her all breathless, still gazing, pursuing, 

 And waving at times, with her white hand, adieu ; 



On the rock now she sits, with fix'd eye the ship viewing, 

 No picture of fancy — but often too true ! 



