The country was yet naked and leafless; but English scenery is
always verdant, and the sudden change in the temperature of the
weather was surprising in its quickening effects upon the landscape.
It was inspiring and animating to witness this first awakening of
spring; to feel its warm breath stealing over the senses; to see the
moist mellow earth beginning to put forth the green sprout and the
tender blade: and the trees and shrubs, in their reviving tints and
bursting buds, giving the promise of returning foliage and flower. The
cold snow-drop, that little borderer on the skirts of winter, was to
be seen with its chaste white blossoms in the small gardens before the
cottages. The bleating of the new-dropt lambs was faintly heard from
the fields. The sparrow twittered about the thatched eaves and budding
hedges; the robin threw a livelier note into his late querulous wintry
strain; and the lark, springing up from the reeking bosom of the
meadow, towered away into the bright fleecy cloud, pouring forth
torrents of melody. As I watched the little songster, mounting up
higher and higher, until his body was a mere speck on the white
bosom of the cloud, while the ear was still filled with his music,
it called to mind Shakspeare's exquisite little song in Cymbeline:
Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,
And Phoebus 'gins arise,
His steeds to water at those springs,
On chaliced flowers that lies.
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