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Below is a list of all the articles and advertisements which appeared in the first issue of the Bridgnorth Beacon, dated 1st October 1852. The transcriptions can be viewed by clicking on the titles.
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Poetry.
(for the Bridgnorth Beacon)
THE NIGHTINGALE
At the calm hour of night, when the stars’ pale light,
Bespangles Heav’ns deep blue zone,
And the whispering breeze sighs soft through the trees,
With sweet Eolian tone,
And the dark glassy streams, reflect the moon-beams,
Like shadows of by-gone days,
As bright and as cold, as the pleasures of old,
Around which fond memory plays.
Then when all else is still, save the trickling rill,
Or the low of the distant herd,
Sounds the sweet rich song, borne by Zephyrs along,
Of the Heav’n-toned midnight bird;
And as the thick note, from his tiny throat,
Awakens the echo round,
The flowery glades, and the leafy shades,
Are filled with its matchless sound.
When each bird is at rest, on its downy nest,
That sang in the eye of day,
Then lonely and lorn, on the wide spreading thorn,
He pours his harmonious lay;
And still on he sings, till the wild wood rings,
To chorus his melody,
Which soft as the lay, that th’ Genii play
Fades gently clear in a sigh.
Long ago one night, ’twas a balmy night,
When earth was calmly sleeping,
That th’ Nightingale sate, by his brooding mate,
And tender watch was keeping,
When the lonely bird, in his wakefulness heard,
A wonderful sound of joy,
Which filled the still night, like a flood of light,
With a wondrous, wondrous joy!
’Twas the song of the spheres, reached th’ lone bird’s ears
As he listened that balmy night,
And for ever the song, of that joyous throng,
Is filling his heart with delight;
And whenever he hears, those starry spheres,
Hymning their choral praise,
Then, flows from his heart, his tiny part,
The sweetest of earthly lays.
Thus to him was given, a voice from Heav’n,
An echo of angels’ tongues,
And as softly he sighs his melodies,
They heaven-ward float in songs;
But with op’ning day, from each waving spray,
Th’ concert of nature rings loud,
Then th’ celestial strain, is scarce heard again,
Till night folds earth in her shroud.
All hail to thee bird! oh! oft have I heard,
Such strains in a time now fled,
When a child I would roam, from my village home,
With Haughmond’s dark shades over head
’Tis past as a dream, too bright for a gleam,
To pause on its onward flight,
But while mem’ry clear, paint scenes still most dear,
I’ll wish thee sweet bird, Good Night!
R. W. Rowley.
Bridgnorth, Ma 5, 1852
* these stanzas were suggested on hearing a Nightingale warbling its mellifluent strains from a bush in Cantern Dingle, near this town;—the writer only wonders that such treats are not more frequently experienced in this beautiful locality, so peculiarly the home, where such songsters must love to dwell.
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