“—— —— Now is the pleasant time,
The cool, the silent, save where silence yields,
To the night-warbling bird, that, now awake,
Tunes sweetest his love-laboured song.”
Milton.
“How all things listen while thy muse complains,
Such silence waits on Philomela’s strains,
In some still evening, when the whispering breeze
Pants on the leaves, and dies upon the trees.”
Pope.
“There’s a bower of roses by Bendemeer’s stream,
And the Nightingale sings round it all the year long;
In the days of my childhood, ’t was like a sweet dream
To sit in the roses, and hear the bird’s song.
“That bower and its music I never forget,
But oft when alone, in the bloom of the year,
I think, Is the Nightingale singing there yet?
Are the roses still bright by the calm Bendemeer?”
Moore.
THE BLACK-CAP, (Curruca atricapilla,)