A NIGHTINGALE IN KENSINGTON

GARDENS

THE

the cripple in the chair,

HEY paused,
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,

NIGHTINGALE IN KENSINGTON GARDENS

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

And then,

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