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WILD SCENES AND SONG-BIKDS. 
" thou surely art 
A creature of a fiery heart ; 
Those notes of thine, they pierce and pierce 
Tumultuous harmony and fierce." 
We cannot dwell longer in the atmosphere of Him who 
tortured music through his whole dissonant volcanic life into 
singing — that 
" Our life is a false nature — 'tis not in 
The harmony of things — this hard decree, 
This uneradicdble taint of sin — 
This boundless Upas," &c. 
We do not recognize him among " God's Prophets," who 
eternally cant of 
" The immedicaNe soul with heart-aches ever new." 
There is an equal difficulty in finding any distinct Anti- 
type of Coleridge — though not for the same cause. His mag- 
nificent Genius hangs upon the Times like some clouded 
mystic Fantasy. 
" Up from the lake a shape of golden dew. 
Between two rocks athwart the rising moon, 
Dances i'the wind where eagle never flew." 
Though there is a Bird — as yet unknown and unclassified 
of Naturalists — we heard of, and saw a single specimen of, 
in Mexico, which fully expresses him. It is of a very splen- 
did plumage and most miraculous powers of song, and the 
superstitious natives hold it in great veneration. It haunts 
the deep groves about the old Catholic Missions, and they 
say is often heard to imitate from its hidden coverts the 
strains and voices of the Nuns singing their Aves to the Yir- 
gin. We heard it singing one night, and shall never forget 
the wild unearthly mellowness of that song — 
