( CHARLES BLOOMFIELD. )

‘ Twas the blush of the spring, vegetation was young,

And the birds with a maddening ecstasy sung

To welcome a season so lovely and gay —

But a scene the most sweet was the close of May-day.

For the air was serene, and the moon was out bright,

And Philomel boldly exerted her might

In her swellings and trillings, to rival the sound

Of the distant defiance of nightingales round.

While the cuckoo as proudly was heard to prolong,

Though daylight was over, her own mellow song,

And appeared to exult; and at intervals, too,

The owl in the distance joined in with “Too-whoo!”

Unceasing, unwearied, each, proud of his power,

Continued the contest from hour to hour;

The nightingale vaunting — the owl in reply —

With the cuckoo's response — till the moon from the sky

Was hastening down to the west, and the dawn

Was spreading the east; and the owl in the morn

Sat silently winking his eyes at the sight;

And the nightingale also had bidden “good-night.”

The cuckoo, left solus, continued with glee,

His notes of defeat from his favourite tree;

At length he departed; but still as he flew,

Was heard his last notes of defiance, “Cuckoo!”