T was the love-lorn PHILOMEL—

The sweetest bird that sings;

And o'er my spirit came the spell

That all sad music flings.

Then—fashioning to tender words

That wordless fairy-tale—

"Sing on," I cried, "oh, bird of

birds,

Melodious Nightingale!"

Her sorrow pierced me through

and through;

And, though the village-chime

A while ago had stricken two,

I took no note of time.

But somehow, ere the clock told three,

I felt my ardour fail;

For sleep came fighting hard in me

Against the Nightingale.

An hour I lay and listen'd still

To that ecstatic voice,

(Net working out my own sweet will,

But Mr Hobson's choice.)

"This melancholy strain," said I,

"Is very like a wail!"

Eftsoons I raised a bitter cry

Of "Hang the Nightingale!"

The village-clock had sped its round,

The village-clock struck five,

And still I found my sense of sound

Remorselessly alive.

I knew my efforts at repose

Would be of small avail,

Unless I rose and donn'd my hose,

And slew the Nightingale.

No way but one. I had a gun

With which, in former years,

Great execution I had done

Amongst the Volunteers;

And, while a friendly moonbeam

And lighted hill and dale,

I loaded—took a deadly aim—

And—exit Nightingale!