Page:A Treasury of South African Poetry.djvu/38

 As they whisper their surmise: "'Tis a sister in disguise, Singing for the world's delight, The cantata she, by right, Should have sung in Heaven to-night."

Now the witching rhythm flows Softly to a perfect close, In severed notes that drowse and swoon, If for ever, ah, too soon! And we sigh the song should be So fugitive, when suddenly A swift, aerial round Of voluptuous, throbbing sound Flows again in wild delight Through the enamoured hush of night, On and on, as if to drain His heart of music in one strain The bird, if bird it be, were fain. 'Tis a bird, and nothing more, With one song, his only store, And he repeats it o'er and o'er To be more perfect than before. But that bird in heavenly spheres, Singing to angelic cars, That did never suffer wound From a false discordant sound, For his singing would be crowned.

A pause—and now the vale is full Of intermittent, musical Trills of rapture, beautiful! Rippling in the dreamy sky, How they flow, and ebb, and die!