THE LANGUAGE OF BIRDS, 137 
He sang of love with quiet blending. 
Slow to begin, and never ending ; 
Of serious faith, and inward glee ; 
That was the song, the song for me. 
Wordsworth* 
AN EVENING ADDRESS TO A NIGHTINGALE. 
Sweet bird ! that, kindly perching near, 
Pour'st thy plaints melodious in mine ear, — 
Not, like base worldlings, tutor'd to forego 
The melancholy haunts of woe, — 
Thanks for thy sorrow-soothing strain : 
For surely thou hast known to prove. 
Like me, the pangs of hopeless love ; 
Else why so feelingly complain, 
And with thy piteous notes thus sadden all the grove ? 
Say, dost thou mourn thy ravish 'd mate, 
That oft enamour'd on thy strains has hung ? 
Or has the cruel hand of fate 
Bereft thee of thy darling young ? 
Alas ! for both I weep — 
N 2 
