POETRY.
CHANT INTIME.
Asap the flowering oaks to-day, From.some small breast I could not see, A little mezzo-voce lay— An airy, murmuring melody—
Came whisperingly.
My bird-friends I have long loved well,
Thinking I knew their every word, But which sang now I could not tell; And fancy hinted that I heard Some fairy bird.
Unearthly sweet, each fluting note.
Susurrant run and sighing fall Came faint as from an elfland throat; Or did, from some far, heavenly hall, Child-angels call?
Then gloomed a swift-blown, April cloud.
That silenced 'neath a scud of hail The singing, and a storm-gust bowed
The leaves that parted to unveil—
The nightingale!
'Twas he—the maestro!—murmuring there
A eong he sings but to his own None with his mate is meant to share That tender, intimate heart-tone-
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