A NIGHTINGALE IN KENSINGTON GARDENS.

Where the crowd hears the note.
What birds must sing the song,

To whom that hour of listening men
Could ne'er in life belong!

But "Art for Art!" the Poet said, ""Tis still the Nightingale,

And then,

That sings where no men's feet will tread,
And praise and audience fail."

MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.

A SONG OF THE FOUR SEASONS.

WHEN Spring comes laughing

By vale and hill,

By wind-flower walking

And daffodil,

Sing stars of morning,

Sing morning skies,

Sing blue of speedwell,
And my Love's eyes.

When comes the Summer,
Full-leaved and strong,

And gay birds gossip

The orchard long,

Sing hid, sweet honey
That no bee sips;
Sing red, red roses, -
And my Love's lips.

When Autumn scatters

The leaves again,

And piled sheaves bury

The broad-wheeled wain, ·

VOL. I. 12

177