ייי? earth

and falling, the doubling and redoubling of the nightingale's voice, might well be lifted above earth, and say, Lord, what music hast thou provided for saints in heaven, since thou affordest bad men such music on However favourable the banks of the Thames may be to the music of the nightingales, we could say much of their harmonious songs in the beautiful beech-woods and tangled thickets of Hampshire, and in other song-abounding districts. But perhaps there are few places where they are heard more charmingly, or to greater advantage, than on the banks of the Avon, amidst the wooded recesses of St. Vincent's rocks, between Clifton and the mouth of the Severn. There are few persons familiar with that fine forestlike tract on the left bank of the river, known under the general denomination of Leigh Woods, who are not also acquainted with the sweet embowered ravine, running up from the very shore of the stream, to nearly the summit of the hill which has received, and well deserves, the name of Nightingale Valley. It is at all times a lovely spot; and we could scarcely wish our young friends a greater treat, amid the scenes of nature, than to visit this valley on one of those calm moonlight nights, when it resounds with the songs of the nightingales which have

taken up their abode amidst its green recesses. They are, indeed, to be heard all along that fine range of wood-covered rock.

Some years since, an American gentleman, arriving in England for the first time, entered it by the port of Bristol. It was evening before the vessel left the mouth of the Severn, to proceed up the river to the harbour. Worn out with the fatigue of a long and harassing voyage, he felt all the powers of mind and body exhausted, and the interest and excitement naturally caused by the first sight of a new country, seemed almost chased from his mind by his worn and jaded condition. The vessel advanced towards the river. The moon rose, it was the season of nightingales; and they poured forth their matchless strains on the ears of the delighted stranger, as he gazed with wonder and extacy on the beautiful scenery lighted up by the moonbeams. It was like a fabled scene of enchantment to him. His fatigue vanished. He forgot his toils, and his perils, and his weariness, and thought only what a land of sweet song and bright vision he was entering. On reaching the city the scene changed indeed. His feelings of exhaustion returned, and he sunk, almost as soon as landed, into the torpid rest of over-wearied nature. But never did he lose the delight

ful impression of his moon-lighted entrance, and the ravishing song of birds whose notes he had never before heard; for America, among all her birds of bright plumage and varied melody, cannot boast our unrivalled nightingale.

THE NIGHTINGALE.

Beautiful nightingale, who shall recall

Thy exquisite strains, on the ear as they fall!
Gently as night-dews descend on the green,

Their source like the night-falling dews all unseen.
And every note has a cadence as sweet.

As sounds that gush out where the calm waters meet;
Soul-thrilling tones in deep solitude heard,

When by light breezes the waters were stirr'd.
Thy home is the wood on the echoing hill,
Or the verdant banks of the forest rill:
And soft as the south-wind the branches among,
Thy plaintive lament goes floating along.

Beautiful nightingale, who shall pourtray
All the varying turns of thy flowing lay!
And where is the lyre, whose chords shall reply,
To the notes of thy changeful melody!
We may linger indeed, and listen to thee,
But the linked chain of thy harmony

It is not for mortal hand to unbind,

Nor the clue of thy mazy music to find.

Thy home is the wood on the echoing hill,
Or the verdant banks of the forest rill,

And soft as the south-wind the branches among,
Thy plaintive lament goes floating along.

ORDER PASSERES.

The Black-Cap.

Sylvia Atricapilla.-LATH. La Fauvette à tête noire.BUFF.

THIS blythe little bird visits us in the early days of April, and makes our gardens resound with its notes. So sweetly does it sing, that it has sometimes been called the mock nightingale. White describes it as having a full, sweet, deep, loud, and wild pipe, when flitting about from tree to tree; but he says it is, when calmly seated, heard to the greatest advantage. When pouring forth its full tide of song, it gives out strains of sweet, but inward melody, full of soft and gentle modulations, rivalled only by the nightingale. This tasteful observer of nature adds, that the wild sweetness of the black-cap's note, always brought to his recollection these lines in one of Shakespear's songs:

"And tune his merry throat,

Unto the wild bird's note.'

The female black-caps do not arrive till a week or two after the male birds. As soon as