194 Transactions of the [Sess. 



Then be the time to steal adown the vale, 

 And listen to the vagrant Cuckoo's tale ; 

 To hear the clamorous Curlew call his mate, 

 Or the soft Quail his tender pain relate ; 

 To see the Swallow sweep the dark'ning plain 

 Belated, to support her infant train ; 

 To mark the Swift in rapid giddy ring 

 Dash round the steeple, unsubdued of wing : 

 Amusive birds ! say, where your hid retreat, 

 When the frost rages and the tempests beat ? 

 Whence your return, by such nice instinct led. 

 When spring, soft season, lifts her bloomy head ? 

 Such balSed searches mock man's prying pride, 

 The God of Nature is your secret guide ! 



While deep'ning shades obscure the face of day, 

 To yonder bench, leaf-sheltered, let us stray, 

 Till blended objects fail the swimming sight. 

 And all the fading landscape smks in night ; 

 To hear the drowsy Dorr come brushing by 

 With buzzing wing, or the shrill Cricket cry ; 

 To see the feeding Bat glance through the wood ; 

 To catch the distant falling of the flood ; 

 While o'er the cliff tli' awakened Churn-owl hung. 

 Through the still gloom protracts his chattering song ; 

 While, high in air, and poised upon his wings. 

 Unseen, the soft enamoured Woodlark smgs : 

 These, Nature's works, the curious mind employ, 

 Inspire a soothing melancholy joy : 

 As fancy warms, a pleasing kind of pain 

 Steals o'er the cheek, and thrills the creeping vein ! 



Each rural sight, each sound, each smell combine ; 

 The tinkling sheep-bell, or the breath of kine ; 

 The new-mown hay that scents the swelling breeze, 

 Or cottage chimney smoking through the trees. 

 The chilling night-dews fall : away, retire. 

 For see the Glow-worm lights her amorous fire." 



I thus conclude my remarks on Gilbert White, and will now 

 proceed to the consideration of the life and writings of Charles 

 Waterton. Of Charles Waterton we know far more than we do of 

 Gilbert White, because he published an autobiography, and it is 

 a very interesting and amusing one. And he also has a good 

 biographer in Mr Norman Moore. He was born on the 3d June 

 1782, and in the year 1837 he thus describes himself: — 



"I was born at Walton Hall, near Wakefield, in the county of York, some 

 55 years ago. This tells me I am no chicken ; but were I asked how 

 I feel with regard to the approaches of old age, I should quote Dryden's 

 translation of the description which the Roman poet gives us of Charon — • 



' He seemed in years, yet in his years were seen 

 A vernal vigour and autuiunal green.' 



In fact, I feel as though I were not more than 30 years old. I am free from 

 rheumatic pains, and so supple in the joints tliat I can climb a tree with the 

 utmost facility. I stand six feet all but half an inch. On looking at myself 



