tINGALE;A CONVERSAtIONAL POEM, RIttEN IN APRIL, 1798.

    No cloud, no relique of the sunken day

    Distinguis, no long thin slip

    Of sullen Ligrembling hues.

    Come,  on this old mossy Bridge!

    You see tream beneath,

    But  ?oly

    Oer its soft bed of verdure. All is still,

    A balmy nigars be dim,

    Yet let us the vernal showers

    t gladden th, and we shall ?nd

    A pleasure in tars.

    And ingale begins its song,

    quot;Most musical, most melanc;[1] Bird!

    A melanc!

    In nature thing melancholy.

    --But some nig was piercd

    ithe remembrance of a grievous wrong,

    Or sloemper or neglected love,

    (And so, poor retch himself

    And made all gentle sounds tell back tale

    Of his own sorrows) he and such as he

    First namd tes a melancrain;

    And many a poet ec,

    Poet, whe rhyme

    ter far retchd his limbs

    Beside a brook in mossy forest-dell

    By sun or moonligo the in?uxes

    Of sing elements

    Surrendering , of his song

    And of ful! so his fame

    Sures immortality,

    A venerable thing! and so his song

    Sure lovelier, and itself

    Be lovd, like nature!--But t be so;

    And yout poetical

    wilighe spring

    In ball-rooms and  tres, till

    Full of meek sympat heir sighs

    Oer Py-pleading strains.

    My Friend, and my Friends Sister! we

    A different lore:  thus profane