In leafy distance hid, to sing again.

Anon, from bosom of that green retreat,

Her song anew in silvery stream would gush,
With jug-jug-jug and quavered trillings sweet;
Till, roused to emulate the enchanting strain,
From hawthorn spray piped loud the merry thrush
Her wild bravura through the woodlands wide.

Hark! 'tis the Nightingale herself. Now hush; For, if I guess aright, in that thorn bush

Her curious house is hidden. Beud aside
These hazel branches that o'erhang the way,
And stoop right cautious 'neath the rowan spray;
And search that hoary thoru clump round and round;
And where the seeded grass hangs long and grey
We'll wade right through; it is a likely nook :
In such-like spots, and often on the ground,
They'll build where schoolboys never think to look.
Ay! as I live, her secret nest is here

On this thorn-stump, where oft I've searched about
For hours in vain.—There-part that bramble by,
Or trample on its branches, and get near.
-How subtle is the bird; she started out,
And raised a plaintive call of danger nigh,
Ere we were past yon ash-tree; but, behold,
Now that we're here, she keeps her fear untold,
Lest she betray her home. So, even now
We'll leave it as we found it; safety's guard
Of pathless solitudes shall keep it still.

-See, there she's sitting on the old oak bough,

In terror mute: our presence doth retard
Her joys, and doubt turns all her raptures chill.
-Sing on, sweet bird; may no worse hap befal
Thy nursery than that which now deceives;
We will not plunder Music of its dower,
Nor taint this spot of happiness with wrong:
For melody seems hid in every flower

That blossoms near thy home; these harebells all
Seem bowing to the beautiful in song;

And the gay cuckoo-flower, with spotted leaves,
Seems blushing of the singing it has heard.

How curious is the nest! No other bird Employs such loose materials, or weaves Its dwelling in such spots: dead oaken leaves Are placed without, and velvet moss within, And little scraps of grass; and, scant and spare, Perchance some spoil of woolly down or hair; From haunts of man she seemeth nought to win. Boon Nature is the builder, and contrives Homes for her children's comforts every where : And here her songsters spend their gentle lives Unseen, save when a wanderer passes near That loves such pleasant places.-Deep adown The nest is made,-an hermit's mossy cell; Snug lie the beauteous eggs, in number five, Of deadened green, or rather olive brown; And the old prickly thorn-bush guards them well. And here we'll leave them still, unknown to wrong, As the old woodland's legacy of song.