CUCKOO. 239 



sunlight, that pours down upon it yonder, into ten 

 thousand flashing gems. 



But in this direction, or at least a little to the 

 south of it, lies our further progress. Let us up and 

 away, over these sloping fields, and through yonder 

 coppice, and along the ridge which slants away to the 

 shore, and ends in those ragged and bristling points 

 of black rock. 



Here we enter a quiet path, which is a favourite re- 

 sort of mine. It is but a foot-track, winding through 

 a thicket, or coppice, or hanging- wood I scarcely 

 know which to call it ; it is all by turns ; almost im- 

 mediately over a most wild and rocky shore. Sit for 

 a moment on the step of the rustic stile ! The mel- 

 low song of the blackbird comes up from the tangled 

 bush below, so soft and sweet and rich ; so flute-like, 

 with a charming trill now and then; there is no 

 rivalry ; no answering note provokes him to emula- 

 tion ; his melody is soft and low, as if poured forth 

 merely for his own gratification. 



Hark ! the cuckoo ! sweet cuckoo ! dear bird ! 

 thy two simple notes thrill my heart with a power 

 far beyond that of the most perfect melody. It is 

 the very breath of mature spring and early summer ; 

 the very expression of the loveliest season, when the 

 year is in the very height of its beauty. Sweet cuckoo ! 

 thou hast given inspiration to poets age after age, from 

 our early Gower down to Logan and Wordsworth. 

 The quaint, but racy and forcible words of our earliest 

 English poet come to my mind 



