Nightingale and Thorn (Vol. iv., p. 175.), by A. W. H.:—
"Every thing did banish moan,
Save the nightingale alone:
She, poor bird, as all forlorn,
Leaned her breast up-till a thorn,
And there sung the dolefull'st ditty,
That to hear it was great pity."
Shakspeare: Passionate Pilgrim, xix.
W. J. BERNHARD SMITH.
Temple.