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Thee wondrous we may call,
Most wondrous this of all,

That such a tiny throat
Should wake so loud a sound, and pour so loud

a note. MARIA TESSELSCHADE VISSCHER (Dutch). Translation

of John BOWRING.

PHILOMELA.

HARK ! ah, the nightingale !
The tawny-throated !
Hark! from that moonlit cedar what a burst !
What triumph ! hark, — what pain !
0 wanderer from a Grecian shore,
Still - after many years, in distant lands
Still nourishing in thy bewildered brain
That wild, unquenched, deep-sunken, Old-World

pain,

Say, will it never heal ?
And can this fragrant lawn,
With its cool trees, and night,
And the sweet, tranquil Thames,
And moonshine, and the dew,
To thy racked heart and brain

Afford no balm ?

Everything 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.
Fie, fie, fie ! now would she cry;
Teru, teru, by and by ;
That, to hear her so complain,
Scarce I could from tears refrain ;
For her griefs, so lively shown,
Made me think upon mine own.
Ah ! (thought I) thou mourn'st in vain ;
None takes pity on thy pain ;
Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee;
Ruthless bears, they will not cheer thee ;
King Pandion, he is dead;
All thy friends are lapped in lead :
All thy fellow-birds do sing,
Careless of thy sorrowing !
Whilst as fickle Fortune smiled,
Thou and I were both beguiled,
Every one that flatters thee
Is no friend in misery.
Words are easy, like the wind ;
Faithful friends are hard to find.
Every man will be thy friend
Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend ;
But, if stores of crowns be scant,
No man will supply thy want.
If that one be prodigal,
Bountiful they will him call;
And, with such-like flattering,
“Pity but he were a king.”
If he be aildiet to vice,
Quickly him they will entice;
But if Fortune once do frown,
Then farewell his great renown:
They that fawned on him before,
Use his company no more.
He that is thy friend indeed,
He will help thee in thy need ;
If thou sorrow,

he will weep,
If thou wake, he cannot sleep.
Thus, of every grief in heart,
He with thee doth bear a part.
These are certain signs to know
Faithful friend from flattering foe.

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Dost thou to-night behold, Here, through the moonlight on this English

grass, The unfriendly palace in the Thracian wild ?

Dost thou again peruse, With hot cheeks and seared eyes, The too clear web, and thy dumb sister's shame?

Dost thou once more essay Thy flight; and feel come over thee, Poor fugitive ! the feathery change ; Once more ; and once more make resound, With love and hate, triumph and agony, Lone Daulis, and the high Cephisian vale ? Listen, Eugenia, How thick the bursts come crowding through

the leaves ! Again - thou hearest! Eternal passion ! Eternal pain !

MATTHEW ARNOLD.

RICHARD BARNFIELD.

ADDRESS TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

THE MOTHER NIGHTINGALE.

As it fell upon a day,
In the merry month of May,
Sitting in a pleasant shade
Which a grove of myrtles made,
Beasts did leap, and birds did sing,
Trecs did grow, and plants did spring ;

I HAVE seen a nightingale
On a sprig of thyme bewail,
Seeing the dear nest, which was
Hers alone, borne off, alas !
By a laborer; I heard,

Translation of THOMAS ROSCOL.

For this outrage, the poor bird

His nimble hand's instinct then taught each Say a thousand mournful things

string To the wind, which, on its wings,

A capering cheerfulness, and maile them sing To the Guardian of the sky

To their own dance; now negligently rash Bore her melancholy try,

He throws his arm, and with a long-drawn dash Bore her tender tears. She spake

Blends all together ; then distinctly trips As if her fond heart would break :

From this to that, then quick returning skips, One while in a sad, sweet note,

And snatches this again, and pauses there. Gurgled from her straining throat, She measures every measure, everywhere She enforced her piteous tale,

Meets art with art; sometimes, as if in doubt Mournful prayer and plaintive wail ; Not perfect yet, and fearing to be out, One while, with the shrill dispute

Trails her plain ditty in one long-spun note, Quite outwearied, she was mute ;

Through the sleek passage of her open throat, Then afresh, for her dear brood,

A clear, unwrinkled song ; then doth she point it Her harmonious shrieks renewed.

With tender accents, and severely joint it Now she winged it round and round ; By short diminutives, that being reared Now she skimmed along the ground; în controverting warbles, evenly shared, Now from bough to bough, in haste,

With her sweet self she wrangles : he, amazed The delighted robber chased,

That from so small a channel should be raised And, alighting in his path,

l'he torrent of a voice whose melody Seemed to say, 'twixt grief and wrath,

Could melt into such sweet variety, “Give me back, fierce rustic rude,

Strains higher yet, that, tickled with rare art, Give me back my pretty brood,"

The tattling strings, each breathing in his part, And I heard the rustic still

Most kindly do fall out : the grumbling bass Answer, “That I never will."

In surly groans disdains the treble's grace ;
ESTEVAN MANUEL DE VILLEGAS (spanish). The high-pereht treble chirps at this, and chides,

Until his finger (moderator) hides
And closes the sweet quarrel, rousing all,
Hoarse, shrill, at once ; as when the trumpets call

Hot Mars to the harvest of death's field, and woo
MUSIC'S DUEL,

Men's hearts into their hands ; this lesson too

She gives them back; her supple breast thri ls out Now westward Sol had spent the richest beams Sharp airs, and staggers in a warbling doubt Of noon's high glory, when, hard by the streams Of dallying sweetness, hovers o'er her skill, Of Tiber, on the scene of a green plat,

And folds in waved notes, with a trembling bill, Under protection of an oak, there sat

The pliant series of her slippery song ; A sweet lute's-master, in whose gentle airs Then starts she suddenly into a throng He lost the day's heat and his own hot cares. Of short thick sobs, whose thundering volleys float, Close in the covert of the leaves there stood And roll themselves over her lubric throat A nightingale, come from the neighboring wood In panting murmurs, stilled out of her breast; (The sweet inhabitant of each glad tree, That ever-bubbling spring, the sugared nest Their muse, their siren, harmless siren she): Of her delicious soul, that there does lie There stood she listening, and did entertain Bathing in streams of fiquid melody; The music's soft report, and mould the same Music's best sced-plot; when in ripened airs In her own murmurs; that whatever mood A golden-headel harvest fairly rears His curious fingers lent, her voice made good. His honey-dropping tops ploughed by her breath The man perceived his rival, and her art; Which there reciprocally laboreth. Disposed to give the light-foot lady sport, In that sweet soil it seems a holy quire, Awakes his lute, and 'gainst the fight to come ounded to the name of great Apollo's lyre ; Informs it in a sweet præludium

Whose silver roof rings with the sprightly notes Of closer strains, and c'er the war begin, Of sweet-lipped angel-imps, thatswill their throats He lightly skirmishes on every string

In cream of morning Helicon, and then Charged with a flying touch ; and straightway she Prefer soft anthems to the cars of men, Carves out her dainty voice as readily To woo them from their beds, still murmuring Into a thousand sweet distinguished tones, That men can sleep while they their matins sing And reckons up in soft divisions

(Most divine service), whose so early lay Quick volumes of wild notes, to let him know, Prevents the eyelids of the blushing day. By that shrill taste, she could do something too. There might you hear her kindle her soft vcice

In the close murmur of a sparkling noise ; Whose trembling murmurs, melting in wild airs,
And lay the groundwork of her hopeful song, Run to and fro, complaining his sweet cares;
Still keeping in the forward stream so long, Because those precious mysteries that dwell
Till a sweet whirlwind (striving to get out) In music's ravished soul he dare not tell,
Heaves her soft bosom, wanders round about, But whisper to the world ; thus do they vary,
And makes a pretty earthquake in her breast, Each string his note, as if they meant to carry
Till the fledged notes at length forsake their nest, Their master's blest soul (snatched out at his ears
Fluttering in wanton shoals, and to the sky, By a strong ecstasy) through all the spheres
Winged with their own wild echoes, prattling fly. Of music's heaven ; and seat there on high,
She opes the floodgate, and lets loose a tide In the empyrean of pure harmony.
Of streaming sweetness, which in state doth ride ! At length (after so long, so loud a strife
On the waved back of every swelling strain, Of all the strings, still breathing the best life
Rising and falling in a pompous train ;

of blest variety, attending on And while she thus discharges a shrill peal His fingers' fairest evolution, Of flashing airs, she qualifies their zeal

In many a sweet rise, many as sweet a fall) With the cool epode of a graver note;

A full-mouthed diapason swallows all. Thus high, thus low, as if her silver throat This done, he lists what she would say to this ; Would reach the brazen voice of war's hoarse bird; And she, although her breath's late exercise Her little soul is ravished, and so poured Had dealt too roughly with her tender throat, Into loose ecstasies, that she is placed

Yet summons all her sweet powers for a note. Above herself, music's enthusiast.

Alas ! in vain ! for while (sweet soul) she tries Shame now and anger mixed a double stain To measure all those wild diversities In the musician's face: “Yet, once again, Of chattering strings, by the small size of one Mistress, I come: now reach a strain, my lute, Poor simple voice, raised in a natural tone; Above her mock, or be forever mute.

She fails, and failing grieves, and grieving dies : Or tune a song of victory to me,

She dies, and leaves her life the victor's prize, Or to thyself sing thine own obsequy."

Falling upon his lute : 0, fit to have So said, his hands sprightly as fire he flings, (That lived so sweetly), dead, so sweet a grave! And with a quavering coyness tastes the strings.

RICHARD CRASHAW. The sweet-lipped sisters musically frighted, Singing their fears are fearfully delighted ; Trembling as when Apollo's golden hairs

BIRDS. Are fanned and frizzled in the wanton airs

THE PELICAN ISLAND." Of his own breath, which, married to his lyre, Doth tune the spheres, and make heaven's self Birds, the free tenants of land, air, and ocean, look higher ;

Their forms all symmetry, their motions grace ; From this to that, from that to this he flies, In plumage, delicate and beautiful, Feels music's pulse in all her arteries ;

Thick without burden, close as fishes' scales, Caught in a net which there Apollo spreads, Or loose as full-blown poppies to the breeze ; His fingers struggle with the vocal threads, With wings that might have had a soul within Following those little rills, he sinks into

them, A sea of Helicon ; his hand does go

They bore their owners by such sweet enchantment, Those parts of sweetness which with nectar drop, Birds, small and great, of endless shapes and Softer than that which pants in Hebe's cup.

colors, The humorous strings expound his learned touch Here flew and perched, there swam and dived ai By various glosses; now they seem to grutch

pleasure ; And murmur in a buzzing din, then jingle Watchful and agile, uttering voices wild In shrill-toned accents striving to be single ; And harsh, yet in accordance with the waves Every smooth turn, every delicious stroke Upon the beach, the winds in caverns moaning, Gives life to some new grace ; thus doth he invoke Or winds and waves abroad upon the water. Sweetness by all her names ; thus, bravely thus Some sought their food among the fimy shoals, (rraught with a fury so harmonious)

Swift darting from the clouds, emerging soon The lute's light genius now does proudly rise, With slender captives glittering in their beaks 2 Heaved on the surges of swoll'n rhapsodies ; These in recesses of steep crags constructed Whose flourish (nieteor-like) doth curl the air Their eyries inaccessible, and trained With flash of high-born fancies, here and there Their hardy broods to forage in all weathers : Dancing in lofty measures, and anon

Others, more gorgeously apparelled, dwelt Creeps on the soft touch of a tender tone, Among the woods, on nature's dainties feeding,

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