THE RIDDLERS

“Thou solitary!” the Blackbird cried,

“I, from the happy Wren,

Linnet and Blackcap, Woodlark, Thrush,

Perched all upon a sweetbrier bush,

Have come at cold of midnight-tide

To ask thee, Why and when

Grief smote thy heart so thou dost sing

In solemn hush of evening,

So sorrowfully, lovelorn Thing —

Nay, nay, not sing, but rave, but wail,

Most melancholic Nightingale?

Do not the dews of darkness steep

All pinings of the day in sleep?

Why, then, when rocked in starry nest

We mutely couch, secure, at rest,

Doth thy lone heart delight to make

Music for sorrow's sake?”

A Moon was there. So still her beam,

It seemed the whole world lay in dream,

Lulled by the watery sea.

And from her leafy night-hung nook

Upon this stranger soft did look

The Nightingale: sighed he:—

“‘ Tis strange, my friend; the Kingfisher

But yestermorn conjured me here

Out of his green and gold to say

Why thou, in splendour of the noon,

Wearest of colour but golden shoon,

And else dost thee array

In a most sombre suit of black?

‘ Surely,’ he sighed,‘ some load of grief,

Past all our thinking — and belief —

Must weigh upon his back!’

Do, then, in turn, tell me, If joy

Thy heart as well as voice employ

Why dost thou now most Sable, shine

In plumage woefuller far than mine?

Thy silence is a sadder thing

Than any dirge I sing!”

Thus, then, these two small birds, perched there,

Breathed a strange riddle both did share

Yet neither could expound.

And we — who sing but as we can,

In the small knowledge of a man —

Have we an answer found?

Nay, some are happy whose delight

Is hid even from themselves from sight;

And some win peace who spend

The skill of words to sweeten despair

Of finding consolation where

Life has but one dark end;

Who, in rapt solitude, tell o'er

A tale as lovely as forlore,

Into the midnight air.