SONG THRUSH. 131 



shedding a broad glare of ruddy light over the smooth surface 

 of the ocean ; when the scattered sheep, accompanied by their 

 frolicsome lambkins, are quietly browsing on the hill ; when 

 the broad-winged eagle is seen skimming along the mountain 

 ridge, as ho wends his way toward his eyry on the far promon- 

 tory ; when no sound comes on the ear save at intervals the 

 faint murmur of the waves rushing into the caverns and rising 

 against the faces of the cliffs ; when the western breeze stealing 

 over the flowery pastures carries with it the perfume of the 

 wild thyme and white clover; the song of the Thrush is poured 

 forth from the summit of some granite block, shaggy with grey 

 lichens, and returns in softer and sweeter modulations from 

 the sides of the heathy mountains. There may be wilder, 

 louder, and more marvellous songs, and the Mocking Bird may 

 be singing the requiem of the red Indian of the Ohio, or cheer- 

 ing the heart of his ruthless oppressor, the white man of many 

 inventions ; but to me it is all-sufficient, for it enters into the 

 soul, melts the heart into tenderness, diffuses a holy calm, and 

 connects the peace of earth with the transcendent happiness of 

 heaven. In other places the song of the thrush may be lively 

 and cheering ; here, in the ocean-girt solitude, it is gentle and 

 soothing ; by its magic influence it smoothes the ruffled surface 

 of the sea of human feelings, as it floats over it at intervals with 

 its varied swells and cadences, like the perfumed wavelets of 

 the summer wind. 



Here on the hill-side lay thee down on this grassy bank, 

 beside the block of gneiss that in some convulsion of primeval 

 times has been hurled unbroken from the fissured crag above. 

 On the slope beneath are small winding plots of corn, with in- 

 tervals of pasture, and tufts of the yellow iris. The coast is 

 here formed of shelving crags, and jutting promontories, there 

 stretches along in a winding beach of white sand, on which 

 the wavelets rush with gentle murmur. Flocks of Mergansers 

 and dusky Cormorants are fishing in the bay, the white Gannets 

 are flying in strings toward the ocean, the Rock Doves glide 

 past on whistling pinions, and the joyous Starlings bound 

 toward their rocky homes. Hark to the cry of the Corn-crake, 

 softened by distance, now seeming to come from afar, now 



