it together, Lizzy, who held the riband, caught a glimpse of a
gorgeous butterfly, all brown and red and purple, and, skipping off to
pursue the new object, let go her hold; so all our treasures were
abroad again. At last, however, by dint of taking a branch of alder as
a substitute for Lizzy, and hanging the basket in a pollard-ash, out
of sight of May, the cowslip-ball was finished. What a concentration of
fragrance and beauty it was! golden and sweet to satiety! rich to sight,
and touch, and smell! Lizzy was enchanted, and ran off with her prize,
hiding amongst the trees in the very coyness of ecstasy, as if any human
eye, even mine, would be a restraint on her innocent raptures.

In the meanwhile I sat listening, not to my enemy the cuckoo, but to a
whole concert of nightingales, scarcely interrupted by any meaner bird,
answering and vying with each other in those short delicious strains
which are to the ear as roses to the eye: those snatches of lovely sound
which come across us as airs from heaven. Pleasant thoughts, delightful
associations, awoke as I listened; and almost unconsciously I repeated
to myself the beautiful story of the Lutist and the Nightingale, from
Ford's 'Lover's Melancholy.' Here it is. Is there in English poetry
anything finer?

'Passing from Italy to Greece, the tales
Which poets of an elder time have feign'd
To glorify their Tempe, bred in me
Desire of visiting Paradise.
To Thessaly I came, and living private,
Without acquaintance of more sweet companions
Than the old inmates to my love, my thoughts,
I day by day frequented silent groves
And solitary walks. One morning early
This accident encounter'd me: I heard
The sweetest and most ravishing contention
That art and nature ever were at strife in.
A sound of music touch'd mine ears, or rather
Indeed entranced my soul; as I stole nearer,
Invited by the melody, I saw
This youth, this fair-faced youth, upon his lute
With strains of strange variety and harmony
Proclaiming, as it seem'd, so bold a challenge
To the clear choristers of the woods, the birds,
That as they flock'd about him, all stood silent,
Wondering at what they heard. I wonder'd too.
A nightingale,
Nature's best skill'd musician, undertakes
The challenge; and for every several strain
The well-shaped youth could touch, she sang him down.
He co