I.

"Mewn cof anwyl." So sings the lorn and lonely nightingale, Sighing in sombre thicket all day long, Weaving its throbbing heartstrings into song For absent mate, with sorrowing unavail. And every warble seems to say--"Alone!" While every pause brings musical reply: Sad Philomel! Each sweet responsive sigh Is but the dreamy echo of its own.