FOOTSTEPS OF THE SEASONS. 195 



redstart still continue to sing while a leaf of summer ramains upon 

 the trees, the former making the air resound with its full, rich modu- 

 lations, which sink at times into the lowest strain, and then swell up 

 again to a full burst of loud and joyful melody. 



"What a strange chain of events would be linked together, in a 

 faithful history of one summer's day ! From the first faint blushes 

 of the eastern sky, to the death of the last twilight shadow at even- 

 tide, there are more changes and metamorphoses than the literature 

 of the whole world recounts. When the night goes forth to meet 

 the morning on the hills, she always gets dazzled by the grey hue 

 which overspreads the east, even before the twilight fairly comes, 

 and when the black pall slowly unwinds, and the soft light of a new 

 day spreads over the yet sleeping earth, there is a qiiiet melancholy 

 and a calm repose in the dim, unearthly light, which seems to belong 

 to some other world. But no sooner has the last lingering star faded 

 in the west, than the distant whistle of the blackbird, and the crake 

 of the landrail, and the twitter of the first swallow, comes mingled 

 with a clarion from the larm-yard, and floating sweetly on the cool 

 breeze. Then the sky, so lately powdered with glitter-sparks, like a 

 black canopy pierced with streams of fire, becomes an argent arch, 

 fretted with fires of gold, and burns with growing streaks of flaiiTC. 

 At last the sun himself arises in tlie east, that god, — 



" Who was a worship 

 Ere the mystery of his making was revealed," 



to whom the shepherds of Chaldea made orisons at noon, and to 

 whom Socrates and Pythagoras of old, gave homage and obeisance. 

 The same sun which looked down upon our rolling world for untold 

 centuries, topping its green forests with gold, and setting its lakes 

 and seas on fire, and which has seen it grow on from year to year in 

 renewed beauty, ever hailing with a rapt joy, the blessed ministry 

 of light :— 



" Lo! here the gentle lark, weary of rest, 



From his moist cabinet mounts up on high, 

 And wakes the morning, from whose silver breast 

 The sun ariseth in his majesty; 



Who doth the world so gloriously behold, 



The cedar tops and hills seem burnished gold." Shakspere. 



And as the day wanes on, the buds, and leaves, and flowers grow 

 and blush in renewed loveliness, and the dews that lay like rounded 



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