Page:A Treasury of South African Poetry.djvu/37

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W. E. HUNTER.
11

THE NIGHTINGALE.

Hearken! 'tis the Nightingale
O'er the silence doth prevail,
Ravishing the listening air
With his solo rich and clear,
With his exquisite delight
Thrilling all the heart of night.
Surely naught akin to pain
Is the theme of such a strain:
Only love's divinest treasure,
Only love's unshadowed pleasure
Can give birth to such a measure;
Love, without its care and pain,
Such as others seek in vain,
Surely is this creature's gain!
Love we dream of, pining, yearning,
To be lost within its burning!


The mysterious music falls
Now at wayward intervals:
Now a rivulet of song,
As from springs of Helicon,
Through the darkness bubbles on—
Bubbles through the breathless air
In notes so full, so rich, so clear,
Angels lean from heaven to hear,
Lean until their listening faces

Light the interstellar spaces,