22 DECEMBER 1888, Page 17

THE NIGHTINGALE.

THOUGH age to age has handed down the tale,

Since first the Grecian shaped it into song, Of Itys slain and Philomela's wrong, I, listening to thy music, Nightingale, Hear not the tortured heart's despairing wail, But love's triumphant paean loud and long, Love forcing utterance for thoughts that throng The soul of fire lodged in a form so frail.

Or if I catch a saddening undertone, 'Tis but the old-world note that joy is brief, Summer treads all too quickly upon Spring, Autumn on Summer, and the woods make moan, As white-haired Winter comes, when no birds sing, Ushered by sobbing stream and withered leaf.

H. T. R.