in old times, when swallows came to England, there were no such things
to be seen. We crossed this water, and a fine sunny country beyond it,
until I was tired, and we now found flies more abundant, though the
oldest amongst us assure me that we must travel further still, over
another wide water, into a country where men's faces are of the same
colour as my feathers, black and tawny; but travellers see strange
things. When I come to England again I will endeavour to find out your
village.[5] I hope, for your sake, you may have a mild winter and good
lodgings. This is all the news worth sending, and I must catch flies for
myself now, you know.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

So farewell,

For I am in haste.

[Illustration]

LETTER XVI.

_ON HEARING THE CUCKOO AT MIDNIGHT, MAY 1st. 1822._

(CHARLES BLOOMFIELD.)

'Twas the blush of the spring, vegetation was young,
And the birds with a maddening ecstasy sung
To welcome a season so lovely and gay--
But a scene the most sweet was the close of May-day.
For the air was serene, and the moon was out bright,
And Philomel boldly exerted her might
In her swellings and trillings, to rival the sound
Of the distant defiance of nightingales round.
While the cuckoo as proudly was heard to prolong,
Though daylight was over, her own mellow song,
And appeared to exult; and at intervals, too,
The owl in the distance joined in with "Too-whoo!"
Unceasing, unwearied, each, proud of his power,
Continued the contest from hour to hour;
The nightingale vaunting--the owl in reply--
With the cuckoo's response--till the moon from the sky
Was hastening down to the west, and the dawn
Was spreading the east; and the owl in the morn
Sat silently winking his eyes at the sight;
And the nightingale also had bidden "good-night."
The cuckoo, left solus, continued with glee,
His notes of defeat from his favourite tree;
At length he departed; but still as he flew,
Was heard his last notes of defiance, "Cuckoo!"

THE END.

_London: R. Clay, Sons, and Taylor, Printers_

* * * * *

NOTES:

[1] This part of the letter is very difficult of translation, as the
plain word, in spiders' language, means merely "a deep one."--R. B.

[2] Cowper, that excellent man and poet, and close observer of nature,
writes as follows to his friend, on the 11th of March, 1