15 SEPTEMBER 1877, Page 14

IL—TO THE SAME, ON BEGINNING HIS SONG.

Sit at my table, welcome guest, and sing The olden song, with young, unpractised throat ; I hold my breath to hear the perfect note Thy tender organs cannot yet make ring.

Sing to me, unpaired fledgling of the spring, Sing, solace me as if I were thy mate ; Teach me fond patience as I sit and wait, Brooding quick thoughts with unprogressive wing.

Thy song is faint as breath of unblown flowers, And only that it shakes thy budding breast, I could have deemed it homeless ; as I hear it, With lowered eyelids and suspended powers, I, too, from doubt, and toil, and strain find rest, And Spirit seem to hear thee in the spirit.

EMILY PFEIFFER.