the working of an imagination set agoing by delight. Although,
therefore, we cannot say that we prefer the Thrush to the Blackbird, yet
we agree with you in thinking him a most delightful bird. Where a Thrush
is, we defy you to anticipate his song in the morning. He is indeed an
early riser. By the way, Chanticleer is far from being so. You hear him
crowing away from shortly after midnight, and, in your simplicity, may
suppose him to be up and strutting about the premises. Far from it;--he
is at that very moment perched in his polygamy, between two of his
fattest wives. The sultan will perhaps not stir a foot for several hours
to come; while all the time the Thrush, having long ago rubbed his eyes,
is on his topmost twig, broad awake, and charming the ear of dawn with
his beautiful vociferation. During mid-day he disappears, and is mute;
but again, at dewy even, as at dewy morn, he pours his pipe like a
prodigal, nor ceases sometimes when night has brought the moon and
stars.

Best beloved, and most beautiful of all Thrushes that ever broke from
the blue-spotted shell!--thou who, for five springs, hast "hung thy
procreant cradle" among the roses, and honeysuckles, and ivy, and
clematis that embower in bloom the lattice of our Cottage-study--how
farest thou now in the snow? Consider the whole place as your own, my
dear bird; and remember, that when the gardener's children sprinkle food
for you and yours all along your favourite haunts, that it is done by
our orders. And when all the earth is green again, and all the sky blue,
you will welcome us to our rural domicile, with light feet running
before us among the winter leaves, and then skim away to your new nest
in the old spot, then about to be somewhat more cheerful in the
undisturbing din of the human life within the flowery walls.

Nay--how can we forget what is for ever before our eyes! Blessed be
Thou--on thy shadowy bed, belonging equally to earth and heaven--O Isle!
who art called the Beautiful! and who of thyself canst make all the Lake
one floating Paradise--even were her shore-hills sylvan no
more--groveless the bases of all her remoter mountains--effaced that
loveliest splendour, sun-painted on their sky-piercing cliffs. And can
it be that we have forsaken Thee! Fairy-land and Love-land of our youth!
Hath imagination left our brain, and passion our heart, so that we can
bear banishment from Thee and yet endure life! Such loss not yet is
ours--witness these g