But northward far with purer blaze On Ochil mountains fell the rays, And as each heathy top they kiss'd, It gleamed a purple amethyst. Yonder the shores of Fife you saw; Here Preston Bay, and Berwick-Law, And broad between them roll'd The gallant Firth the eye might note, Whose islands on its bosom float, Like emeralds chased in gold." Descending from the hill we resume our journey, musing on the days of old, when "shrill fife and martial drum" awakened the echoes of these peaceful vales, now resounding with the melody of birds. How delightful the gushing music of those sky-larks, which descends upon us from "heaven's gates," like a shower of "embodied gladness." Why, it seems as if a hundred of them were soaring "i' the lift," and singing with a joyous energy, akin to that of the blessed spirits in heaven. To me, the lark is the noblest of all birds, the most pure and spirit-like of all aerial songsters. In Scotland, too, she seems to sing the sweetest and strongest. Others may praise the nightingale, if they please, and my own heart has often thrilled, to hear, at the "witching time of night," her wild and melancholy strain from some English copsewood, or Italian grove. But nothing so rich and beautiful, so spirit-like and divine ever greeted my ear as the glad singing of the heaven-aspiring lark. It seemed as if the very spirit of song had taken wings, and were ascending to God, in a flood of melody. But listen to the following strains written by Shelley under the inspiration of the sky-lark's song: Hail to thee, blithe spirit, Bird thou never wert, That from heaven or near it Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. Higher still and higher From the earth thou springest, Like a cloud of fire! The blue deep thou wingest, And singing, still dost soar; and soaring, ever singest. In the golden lightning Of the sunken sun, O'er which clouds are brightening, Thou dost float and run; Like an embodied joy, whose race has just begun. * * * * * All the earth and air With thy voice is loud, As, when night is bare From one lonely cloud, The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed. What thou art, we know not. What is most like thee? From rainbow clouds there flow not Drops so bright to see, As from thy presence showers a rain of melody Like a poet hidden In the light of thought, Singing hymns unbidden Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not. * * * * *