 | Poems and Sonnets |  |
47
THE POET'S AVIARY.
THE NIGHTINGALE.
I
A poet loved a nightingale—and sheWould sing to him, and he was speechless yet,
But vowed solicitude to weave a net
Wherein the tender bird entrapped might be,
And when the moon was silver on the sea,
And all the leaves with silver splashes wet,
He came to that sweet cliff-top wood to set
The cunning of his hand beneath the tree;
And as he passed along the dusty road
He met a boy who swung a wicker cage,
“Some linnet or a chaffinch, I'll engage,”
He commented contemptuous, as he strode
Towards the trysting-tree with heart that glowed,
A war of mingled melody to wage;
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II
The beauty of the night was on the leaves,They trembled to the tuning of a wind
That wept among the stalks, and wailed, and pined,
Not other than a human sufferer grieves,
And on the left hand silver shone the sheaves;
“To-night,” he thought, “my lady will be kind,”
“To-night,” so smiled he, “surely I shall find
The guerdon that a songful soul achieves;”
So pondered he, and trembled, and advanced,
When—feathers and a broken trap he saw,
Dirt scattered here and there by frightened claw,
As here and there the clinging feet had chanced
To alight—one groan he uttered as he glanced,
“That was my bird then!”—spake aloud no more.
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