Classic Poem

They paused,—the cripple in the chair,
More bent with pain than age;
The mother with her lines of care;
The many-buttoned page;

The noisy, red-cheeked nursery-maid,
With straggling train of three;
The Frenchman with his frogs and braid;—
All, curious, paused to see,

If possible, the small, dusk bird
That from the almond bough
Had poured the joyous chant they heard,
So suddenly, but now.

And one poor Poet stopped and thought—
How many a lonely lay
That bird had sung ere fortune brought
It near the common way,

Where the crowd hears the note. And then,—
What birds must sing the song,
To whom that hour of listening men
Could ne'er in life belong!

But ‘Art for Art!’ the Poet said,
‘'Tis still the Nightingale,
That sings where no men's feet will tread,
And praise and audience fail.’