THE LANGUAGE OF BIRDS 
201 
Light from the sod the Lark, exulting, springs, 
Joy tunes his voice and animates his wings ; 
Bard of the bUshing dawn, to him are giv'n 
Earth's choicest verdure and the midway heaven. 
Hark! the glad strains that charm our wondering 
ears, 
As upward still the minstrel fearless steers. 
Till, wide careering through the solar stream, 
A speck, he wanders on the morning beam. 
In London, immense numbers of larks are an- 
nually destroyed to supply a dainty morsel for the 
table, they being much esteemed by persons of 
delicate appetite, who cannot relish coarser fare. 
Frequently, in my country rambles in the winter, have 
I met gentlemen with their guns in search of those 
delightful songsters, and when they had risen in 
great numbers, anxiously have I watched to see how 
many had fallen ; and if the sportsmen had missed 
them all, I rejoiced with my whole heart. . 
How beautiful, exquisitely beautiful, are the fol- 
lowing lines by Thomson on the subject : — 
" Here the rude clamour of the sportsman's joy, 
The guns fast thundering, and the winded horn. 
