THE LANGUAGE OF BIRDS, 
The fairest of the fold he bears away, 
And to his nest compels the struggling prey ; 
He scorns the game by meaner hunters tore, 
And dips his talons in no vulgar gore. 
With lovelier pomp, along the grassy plain 
The silver pheasant draws his shining train ; 
On Asia's myrtle shores, by Phasis' stream, 
He spreads his plumage to the sunny gleam ; 
But when the wiry net his flight confines. 
He lowers his purple crest, and inly pines ; 
The beauteous captive hangs his ruffled wing, 
Opprest by bondage and our chilly spring. 
To claim the verse unnumbered tribes appear. 
That swell the music of the vernal year ; 
Seized with the spirit of the kindly May, 
They seek the glossy wing, and tune the lay ; 
With emulative strife the notes prolong. 
And pour out all their little souls in song. 
When winter bites upon the naked plain, 
Nor food, nor shelter, in the groves remain. 
By instinct led, a firm united band. 
As marshalled by some skilful general's hand, 
The congregated nations wing their way 
In dusky columns o'er the trackless sea; 
