THE HOOPOE’S INVOCATION TO THE NIGHTINGALE. (From the Birds of Aristophanes, 1. 209.)

Waken, dear one, from thy slumbers; Pour again those holy numbers, Which thou warblest there alone In a heaven-instructed tone, Mourning from this leafy shrine Lost—lost Itys, mine and thine, In the melancholy cry Of a mother’s agony. Echo, ere the murmurs fade, Bear them from the yew tree’s shade To the throne of Jove; and there, Phœbus with his golden hair Listens long, and loves to suit To his ivory-mounted lute Thy sad music; at the sound All the gods come dancing round, And a sympathetic song Peals from the immortal throng.