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!