P.T.W.

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THE NIGHTINGALE,

BY THE AUTHOR OF "AHAB."

(_For the Mirror_.)


In the low dingle sings the nightingale.
And echo answers; all beside is still.
The breeze is gone to fill some distant sail,
And on the sand to sleep has sunk the rill.
The blackbird and the thrush have sought the vale.
And the lark soars no more above the hill,
For the broad sun is up all hotly pale,
And in my reins I feel his parching thrill.

Hark! how each note, so beautifully clear,
So soft, so sweetly mellow, rings around.
Then faintly dies away upon the ear,
That fondly vibrates to the fading sound.
Poor bird, thou sing'st, the thorn within thy heart,
And I from sorrows, that will not depart.

S.P.J.