At the corner of Wood-Street, when day-light appears,
There’s a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years:
Poor Susan has pass’d by the spot, and has heard
In the silence of morning the song of the Bird.
’Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees5
A mountain ascending, a vision of trees;
Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,
And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.
Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale,
Down which she so often has tripp’d with her pail;10
And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove’s,
The one only Dwelling on earth that she loves.
She looks, and her Heart is in Heaven:—but they fade,
The mist and the river, the hill and the shade;
The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,15
And the colours have all pass’d away from her eyes.