A BALLADE OF PHILOMELA.

From gab of jay and chatter of crake

The dusk wood covered me utterly.

And here the tongue of the thrush was awake.

Flame-floods out of the low bright sky

Lighted the gloom with gold-brown dye,

Before dark; and a manifold chorussing

Arose of thrushes remote and nigh,—

For the tongue of the singer needs must sing.

Midmost a close green covert of brake

A brown bird listening silently

Sat; and I thought — “She grieves for the sake

Of Itylus,— for the stains that lie

In her heritage of sad memory.”

But the thrushes were hushed at evening.

Then I waited to hear the brown bird try,—

For the tongue of the singer needs must sing.

And I said — “The thought of the thrushes Will shake

With rapture remembered her heart; and her shy

Tongue of the dear times dead will take

To make her a living song, when sigh

The soft night winds disburthened by.

Hark now!” — for the upraised quivering wing,

The throat exultant, I could descry,—

And the tongue of the singer needs must sing!