174 
WILD SCENES AND SONG-BIKDS. 
" And the spirit of that mighty singing 
To its abyss was suddenly withdrawn." 
We have not space for a further extension of these 
Similes. We will only glance at a few others. There is no 
English Bird which furnishes a good type of Keats — this 
Country affords, though, a perfect one in the Brown Thrush, 
or, as it was most beautifullj^, though technically termed, 
" Orpheus Eufus." It is inferior to the King of Song in the 
infinite variety, the triumphant energy and force of its min- 
strelsy. But we are constantly reminded of the poetry of 
Keats, in the deep liquid rush of its strains and the keen in- 
tense melody of each particular note. Like him, it is a plain, 
humble Bird, hiding in the low thickets, and only coming 
forth to sing. Then it mounts upon the topmost pinnacle 
of the highest tree, that all the world may know of it — for 
now it has forgotten its timid humility — all its heart is 
big with the melodious prophecy of sound. Its mood of 
worship is upon it, and'what cares it, or knows, that a proud, 
cruel world lies at its feet, and that it is only mounting to 
where every shaft may reach it. Death and fear are no 
more to it now — it must sing — and forth goes the rapt hymn. 
It has become now 
" As one enamored is np-borne in dream 
O'er lily-pa ven lake, 'mid silver mist, 
To wondrous music " 
Wondrous, but coming unconscious, out of its own heart. 
Then, to we favored Human listeners, 
" O blessed bird, the earth we pace 
Again appears to be 
An unsubstantial, faery place, 
That is fit home for thee." 
It is one of those strange coincidences we have before no- 
ticed — that Keats, without ever having heard his Prototype, 
