But the Boston maid smiles courteouslee, And gently murmurs: "Oh pardon me!
"I did not catch your remark, because I was so entranced with that charming vaws!"
Dies erit prægelida Sinistra quum Bostonia.
JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE.
LARKS AND NIGHTINGALES.
Alone I sit at eventide: The twilight glory pales, And o'er the meadows far and wide Chant pensive bobolinks. (One might say nightingales!)
Song-sparrows warble on the tree, I hear the purling brook, And from the old "manse o'er the lea" Flies slow the cawing crow. (In England 'twere a rook!)
The last faint golden beams of day Still glow on cottage panes, And on their lingering homeward way Walk weary laboring men. (Oh, would that we had swains!)
From farm-yards, down fair rural glades Come sounds of tinkling bells, And songs of merry brown milkmaids, Sweeter than oriole's. (Yes, thank you—Philomel's!)
I could sit here till morning came, All through the night hours dark, Until I saw the sun's bright flame And heard the chickadee. (Alas we have no lark!)