JUNE. 143 



and the cuckoo pours its mellowest note from 

 some region of twilight shadow. The sunsets 

 of this month are transcendantly glorious : the 

 mighty luminary goes down pavilioned amidst 

 clouds of every hue — the splendour of burnish- 

 ed gold, the deepest mazarine blue fading away 

 into the highest heavens, to the palest azure ; 

 and an ocean of purple is flung over the twi- 

 light-woods, or the far-stretching and lonely 

 horizon. The heart of the spectator is touch- 

 ed : it is melted and wrapped into dreams of 

 past and present — pure, elevated, and tinged 

 with a poetic tenderness, which can never awake 

 amid the crowds of mortals or of books. 



The state of nature I have described is just 

 that which might be supposed to exist with per- 

 petual summer : there are sunshine, beauty, and 

 abundance, without a symptom of decay. But 

 this will not last. We soon perceive the florid- 

 ity of nature merging into a verdant monotony: 

 we find a silence stealing over the landscape, so 

 lately filled with the voice of every creature's 

 exultation. The nightingale is gone, and the 

 cuckoo will depart in less time than is allowed 

 him in the peasant's traditionary calendar. 



In April the cuckoo shows his bill ; 

 In May he sings both night and day; 

 In June he altereth his tune ; 

 In July away he '11 fly ; 

 In August go he must. 



