The Nightingale’s Children. Hark, a voice that cries and calls, As the summer twilight falls ; Deep with longing, keen with pain, Sobbing through the summer rain. ‘ Wake, wake, wake ! Ere my heavy heart doth break ! ’ ’Tis the bird of silver tongue Singing summer leaves among, Calling on her children dead With the wet leaves overhead : In the living, leafy wood, Calling on her silent brood, Ever still and lifeless born To the nightingale forlorn. ‘ Wake, wake, wake ! Waken ere my heart doth break ! ’ Nightingale of golden throat ! Sobbing forth thy silver note ; Were it ours, thy charmèd skill, Might we raise our dead at will. Is there ought we would not give ? Would we leave, so they might live, Aught unventured, aught unsaid, Could they wake, the dreams born dead ? Graham R. Tomson.