Yet from that feathered, quivering throat
      A blessing wings across to me;
    No thrall can hold that mellow note,
      Or quench its flame in slavery.

    When morning dawns in holy calm,
      And each true heart to worship calls,
    Mine is the prayer, but his the psalm,
      That floats about our prison walls.

    And as behind the thwarting wires
      The captive creature throbs and sings,
    With him my mounting soul aspires
      On Music’s strong and cleaving wings.

    My chains fall off, the prison gates
      Fly open, as with magic key;
    And far from life’s perplexing straits,
      My spirit wanders, swift and free.

    Back to the heather, breathing deep
      The fragrance of the mountain breeze,
    I hear the wind’s melodious sweep
      Through tossing boughs of ancient trees.

    Beneath a porch where roses climb
      I stand as I was used to stand,
    Where cattle-bells with drowsy chime
      Make music in the quiet land.

    Fast fades the dream in distance dim,
      Tears rouse me with a sudden shock;
    Lo! at my door, erect and trim,
      The postman gives his double knock.

    And a great city’s lumbering noise
      Arises with confusing hum,
    And whistling shrill of butchers’ boys;
      My day begins, my bird is dumb.

Temple Bar.

* * * * *

KEATS’S NIGHTINGALE.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! 
No hungry generations tread thee down: 
The voice I heard this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown: 
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that ofttimes hath
Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self! 
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. 
Adieu!  Adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side:  and now ’tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades
Was it a vision, or a waking dream? 
Fled is that music:—­do I wake or sleep?

J. KEATS.

* * * * *

LARK AND NIGHTINGALE.

Color and form may be conveyed by words,
But words are weak to tell the heavenly strains
That from the throats of these celestial birds
Rang through the woods and o’er the echoing plains;
There was the meadow-lark with voice as sweet,
But robed in richer raiment than our own;
And as the moon smiled on his green retreat,
The painted nightingale sang out alone.