At The Corner Of Wood Street, When Daylight Appears, Hangs A Thrush That Sings Loud, It Has Sung For Three Years: Poor Susan Has Passed 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 Sees 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 Tripped With Her Pail; 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, And The Colours Have All Passed Away From Her Eyes!