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Another says, “I prefer the nave

Of a temple of Baalbec ; There my little ones lie when the palm-trees wave, And, perching near on the architrave,

I fill each open beak."

The sky is overcast,
Yet stars shall rise at last,

Brighter for darkness past, And angels' silver voices stir the air.

ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER

THE NIGHTINGALE.

“Ah!" says the last, “I build my nest

Far up on the Nile's green shore, Where Memnon raises his stony crest, And turns to the sun as he leaves his rest,

But greets him with song no more. In his ample neck is a niche so wide,

And withal so deep and free, A thousand swallows their nests can hide, And a thousand little ones rear beside, —

Then come to the Nile with me."

THE rose looks out in the valley,

And thither will I go ! To the rosy vale, where the nightingale

Sings his song of woe.

They go, they go, to the river and plain,

To ruined city and town,
They leave me alone with the cold again,
Beside the tomb where my joys are lain,
With hope like the swallows flown.

GAUTIER (French).

The virgin is on the river-side,

Culling the lemons pale :
Thither, — yes ! thither will I go,
To the rosy vale, where the nightingale

Sings his song of woe.
The fairest fruit her hand hath culled,

"T is for her lover all : Thither, - yes ! thither will I go, To the rosy vale, where the nightingale

Sings his song of woe. In her hat of straw, for her gentle swain,

She has placed the lemons pale : Thither, — yes ! thither will I go, To the rosy vale, where the nightingale Sings his song of woe. GIL VICENTE (Portuguese). Translation

of JOHN BOWRING

A DOUBTING HEART.

WHERE are the swallows fled ?

Frozen and dead
Perchance upon some bleak and stormy shore.

o doubting heart !
Far over purple seas
They wait, in sunny ease,

The balmy southern breeze
To bring them to their northern homes once more.
Why must the flowers die ?

Prisoned they lie
In the cold tomb, heedless of tears or rain.

O doubting heart !
They only sleep below
The soft white ermine snow

While winter winds shall blow,
To breathe and smile upon you soon again.

THE NIGHTINGALE.

PRIZE thou the nightingale,
Who soothes thee with his tale,

And wakes the woods around;
A singing feather he, - a winged and wandering

sound;

The sun has hid its rays

These many days;
Will dreary hours never leave the earth ?

O doubting heart !
The stormy clouds on high
Veil the same sunny sky

That soon, for spring is nigh,
Shall wake the summer into golden mirth.
Fair hope is dead, and light

Is quenched in night;
What sound can break the silence of despair ?

O doubting heart !

Whose tender carolling
Sets all ears listening

Unto that living lyre,
Whence flow the airy notes his ecstasies inspire ;

Whose shrill, capricious song
Breathes like a flute along,

With many a careless tone, -
Music of thousand tongues, formed by one tongue

alone.
O charming creature rare !
Can aught with thee compare !

Thou art all song, – thy breast
Thrills for one month o' the year, - is tranquil

all the rest.

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