THE NIGHTINGALE.
T was the love-lorn PHILOMEL—
The sweetest bird that sings;
And o'er my spirit came the spell
That all sad music flings.
Then—fashioning to tender words
That wordless fairy-tale—
"Sing on," I cried, "oh, bird of
birds,
Melodious Nightingale!"
Her sorrow pierced me through
and through;
And, though the village-chime
A while ago had stricken two,
I took no note of time.
But somehow, ere the clock told three,
I felt my ardour fail;
For sleep came fighting hard in me
Against the Nightingale.
An hour I lay and listen'd still
To that ecstatic voice,
(Net working out my own sweet will,
But Mr Hobson's choice.)
"This melancholy strain," said I,
"Is very like a wail!"
Eftsoons I raised a bitter cry
Of "Hang the Nightingale!"
The village-clock had sped its round,
The village-clock struck five,
And still I found my sense of sound
Remorselessly alive.
I knew my efforts at repose
Would be of small avail,
Unless I rose and donn'd my hose,
And slew the Nightingale.
No way but one. I had a gun
With which, in former years,
Great execution I had done
Amongst the Volunteers;
And, while a friendly moonbeam
And lighted hill and dale,
I loaded—took a deadly aim—
And—exit Nightingale!