The Wilson Bulletin — No. 46. 11 



not the Lord of ruffians, but a star of heaven come down to 

 earth. Now she stops ! Sweetly, tenderly falls the 

 song- upon thine ear. It speaks to thee of by-gone days, of 

 love's first dream, of childhood's play, of monher's tender 

 care, of the old home by the wayside, of the brook's clear 

 flowing waters, of all that is dear and sweet to memory and 

 heart. The German nation's "Gemuet" is in the song. A 

 yearning and a longing for yonder world comes over the soul 

 as the dream-like love notes call 'till the last sound 

 vanishes in the solemn darkness of the night. And Shake- 

 speare called the Lark "shrillgorg'd" ! Had the great poet 

 no ear for music ? Or is it because there is such a brutal 

 shrillness in all British efforts of philanthropy and civilization 

 from the time of Richard Coeur de Lion down to the days of 

 Lord-butcher Kitchener in the Transvaal, that e'en the Lark 

 to them was "shrillgorg'd"? For once, immortal Briton, 

 thou wert mistaken ! 'Tis not a "shrillgorg'd" monster, but 

 nature's best, its own harmonious melody that reaches us in 

 the Lark's divine lullaby and lets us feel the poet's truth: 



"And I so ravished wiih her heavenly note 

 I stood entranced and had no room for thought." 



Did you ever wander homeward through the woods, when 

 the dark-winged angel of the night has kissed the fields and 

 hamlets and breathed down to the roots of everything that 

 lives? Come with me then, where the bushy beeches whis- 

 per softly, where the gloomy firs stand out in silent awe, 

 broken here and there by the ghost-like drooping branches of 

 the birch, whose bark reflects the moonlight's silvery rays, 



"Als waere dran in stiller Nacht 

 Das Mondlicht blieVien hangen." 



where the blooming heath's carpet, in shining red and white., 

 sends out its delicious odor. Only the distant croaking of the 

 frogs in the treacherous shimmer of the marsh, the howling 

 "boohoo" of the Horned Owl, that robber-knight of the 

 winged world, the spinning of the Goatsucker is heard, — all 

 else is quiet in the moor and heath. The Robins sleep in safety, 

 the Mavis and the Skylark have ceased their song, the 

 Nightingale's bosquets and man's abode are far away, only 

 the elfs dance over the meadows' fog, inviting you to join 



