Philomela

Hark! ah, the nightingale—The tawny-throated!

Hark, from that moonlit cedar what a burst!

What triumph! hark!—what pain!

O wanderer from a Grecian shore,

Still, after many years, in distant lands,

Still nourishing in thy bewilder'd

That wild, unquench'd, deep-sunken, old-world pain—Say, will it never heal?

And can this fragrant

With its cool trees, and night,

And the sweet, tranquil Thames,

And moonshine, and the dew,

To thy rack'd heart and

Afford no balm?

Dost thou to-night behold,

Here, through the moonlight on this English grass,

The unfriendly palace in the Thracian wild?

Dost thou again

With hot cheeks and sear'd

The too clear web, and thy dumb sister's shame?

Dost thou once more

Thy flight, and feel come over thee,

Poor fugitive, the feathery

Once more, and once more seem to make

With love and hate, triumph and agony,

Lone Daulis, and the high Cephissian vale?

Listen,

Eugenia— How thick the bursts come crowding through the leaves!

Again—thou hearest?

Eternal passion!

Eternal pain!