ear blue sky,
And the daylight that awakes him.
_Song_. H. COLERIDGE.

What bird so sings, yet so does wail?
O, 'tis the ravished nightingale--
Jug, jug, jug, jug--tereu--she cries,
And still her woes at midnight rise.
Brave prick-song! who is't now we hear?
None but the lark so shrill and clear,
Now at heaven's gate she claps her wings,
The morn not waking till she sings.
Hark, hark! but what a pretty note,
Poor Robin-redbreast tunes his throat;
Hark, how the jolly cuckoos sing
"Cuckoo!" to welcome in the spring.
_Alexander and Campaspe, Act v. Sc. 1_. JOHN LYLY.

O nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray
Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still;
Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fill
While the jolly Hours lead on propitious May.
Thy liquid notes, that close the eye of day,

* * * * *

Portend success in love.
_To the Nightingale_. MILTON.

O honey-throated warbler of the grove!
That in the glooming woodland art so proud
Of answering thy sweet mates in soft or loud,
Thou dost not own a note we do not love.
_To the Nightingale_. C.T. TURNER.

Lend me your song, ye Nightingales! O, pour
The mazy-running soul of melody
Into my varied verse.
_The Seasons: Spring_. J. THOMSON.

The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark
When neither is attended; and I think
The nightingale, if she should sing by day,
When every goose is cackling, would be thought
No better a musician than the wren.
How many things by season seasoned are
To their right praise and true perfection.
_Merchant of Venice, Act v. Sc. 1_. SHAKESPEARE.

A falcon, towering in her pride of place,
Was by a mousing owl hawked at and killed.
_Macbeth, Act_ ii. _Sc_. 4. SHAKESPEARE.

Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren,
Since o'er shady groves they hover,
And with leaves and flowers do cover
The friendless bodies of unburied men.
_The White Devil, Act_ v. _Sc. 2_. J. WEBSTER.

Now when the primrose makes a splendid show,
And lilies face the March-winds in full blow,
And humbler growths as moved with one desire
Put on, to welcome spring, their best attire,
Poor Robin is yet flowerless; but how gay
With his red stalks upon this sunny day!
_Poor Robin_. W. WORDSWORTH.

The swallow twitters about the eaves;
Blithely she sings, and sweet and clear;
Around her climb the woodbine leaves
In a