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总的来说，世界上没有一种鸟儿与英格兰云雀的声音和心灵一样美妙。正是因为如此，英格兰云雀成了所有有翅膀的东西里最甜美、最快乐、最受欢迎的歌唱家，就像上帝宠爱的天堂里的天使一样。当它冲上云霄，唱起歌来的时候，简直就是欢乐的化身。
在大地上，它胆怯、沉默、害羞，好像对周围感到非常陌生，不知道自己是不是应该待在这儿。而且它看上去又是那么普通，既没有漂亮的羽毛，也没有出众的特征可以吸引别人的注意。上帝造就它，似乎只是为了让我们倾听它一展歌喉，而不是欣赏它的外表。
它的使命就是音乐。它一天中能在天空中飞出上千英里。这个快乐的化身抖动着浑身的斑点，在清晨和夜晚的空气中嘁嘁喳喳，欢快地啼鸣着。它不像老鹰或其它觅食的鸟儿一样盘旋上升，而是像人类的热望一样直上云霄。
它拍拍翅膀，一下就在你的视线中消失，就好像是被它自己快乐的心灵感染了一样。显然，它飞翔的唯一目的就是要释放这一热烈的狂想曲。正是因为这个原因，它被这么多人所喜爱。它是与人类最相近的会歌唱的精灵，它的呼吸本身就如同音乐一样动听。它甜蜜的颤音，是它欢乐生命的韵律。它唱着歌儿，飞越村落的屋顶，好像在指导人类怎样让自己的心灵也向天堂飞去。
造物主竟然把这样响亮的嗓音，安置在这样娇小的身躯里。这真神奇——几乎是奇迹。在某一安静的时刻，你听到它在一英里之外歌唱。然后，它玲珑的身躯消失在阳光的朦胧之中，它的歌声如此清晰，就好像它是在你的窗边歌唱一样。
（艾里胡·巴黎特）
艾里胡·巴黎特（1810～1879年），这位“博学的铁匠”生于康涅狄格州的新不列颠。他的父亲是一位鞋匠。他只在当地的学校接受过非常有限的教育，1827年做了一名铁匠学徒。在学徒期间，他努力自学。他在这一行做了很多年，每天工作10～12个小时，但是竟在这段时期掌握了好几种古代和当代语言。他做过翻译，作品出版在《美国综合选集》中。1844年，他开始出版《基督教公民》。他的代表性文学作品包括《安维尔的光芒》、《锻造厂的声音》、《平和散文》和《去约翰·欧戈罗特家的路上》。本文选自最后一本书。
Take it in all, no bird in either hemisphere equals the English lark in heart or voice, for both unite to make it the sweetest, the happiest, the welcomest singer that was ever winged, like the high angels of God's love.It is the living ecstasy ofjoy when it mounts up into its “ glorious privacy oflight.”
On the earth it is timid, silent, and bashful, as if not at home, and not sure ofits right to be there at all.It is rather homely withal, having nothing in feather, feature, or form to attract notice.It is seemingly made to be heard, not seen, reversing the old axiom addressed to children when getting noisy.
Its mission is music, and it floods a thousand acres of the blue sky with it several times a day.Out ofthat palpitating speck oflivingjoy there wells forth a sea oftwittering ecstasy upon the morning and evening air.It does not ascend by gyrations, like the eagle and birds ofprey.It mounts up like a human aspiration.
It seems to spread its wings and to be lifted straight upwards out ofsight by the afflatus of its own happy heart.To pour out this in undulating rivulets of rhapsody is apparently the only motive ofits ascension.This it is that has made it so loved of all generations.
It is the singing angel ofman's nearest heaven, whose vital breath is music.Its sweet warbling is only the metrical palpitation ofits life ofjoy.It goes up over the rooftrees of the rural hamlet on the wings ofits song, as if to train the human soul to trial flights heavenward.
Never did the Creator put a voice of such volume into so small a living thing.It is a marvel — almost a miracle.In a still hour you can hear it at nearly a mile's distance.When its form is lost in the hazy lace work ofthe sun's rays above, it pours down upon you all the thrilling semitones ofits song as distinctly as ifit were warbling to you in your window.
