THE THRUSH'S NEST, And by-and-bye, like heath-bells gilt with dew, There lay her shining eggs, as bright as flowers, Ink-spotted-over shells of green and blue; And there I witness'd, in the Summer hours, A brood of Nature's minstrels chirp and fly, Glad as the sunshine and the laughing sky. THE NIGHTINGALE. . ND hark! the Nightingale begins its song,"Most musical, most melancholy" bird! A melancholy bird? oh, idle thought! In Nature there is nothing melancholy. 'Tis the merry Nightingale, That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates With fast thick warble his delicious notes, As he were fearful that an April night Would be too short for him to utter forth His love-chant, and disburden his full soul Of all its music! And I know a grove Of large extent, hard by a castle huge, THE NIGHTINGALE. Stirring the air with such an harmony, That, should you close your eyes, you might almost Forget it was not day! On moonlight bushes, Whose dewy leaflets are but half disclosed, You may perchance behold them on the twigs, Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright and full, Glistening, while many a glow-worm in the shade Lights up her love-torch. And oft a moment's space, What time the moon was lost behind a cloud, And down the vale, along the streamlet's edge, Pursued our way, a broken company, Mute or conversing, single or in pairs. Thus having reach'd a bridge that overarch'd |