A NIGHTINGALE IN KENSINGTON GARDENS. 169

A NIGHTINGALE IN KENSINGTON

GARDENS.

HEY paused, the cripple in the chair,

THEY

More bent with pain than age;

The mother with her lines of care;

The many-buttoned page;

The noisy, red-cheeked nursery-maid,

With straggling train of three;

The Frenchman with his frogs and braid ;--
All, curious, paused to see,

If possible, the small, dusk bird
That from the almond bough,

Had poured the joyous chant they heard,

So suddenly, but now.

And one poor POET stopped and thought—

How many a lonely lay

That bird had sung ere fortune brought

It near the common way,

Where the crowd hears the note. And then,

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,

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

MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.

A SONG OF THE FOUR SEASONS.

WHE

HEN 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,