THE LANGUAGE OF BIRDS. 
Spring is abroad 1 a thousand more 
Sweet voices are around, 
Which yesterday a farewell sound 
Gave to some foreign shore ; 
1 know not where — it matters not ; 
To-day their thoughts are bent, 
To pitch, in some sequester'd spot. 
Their secret summer tent ; 
Hid from the glance of urchins' eyes. 
Peering already for the prize ; 
While daily, hourly intervene 
The clustering leaves, a closer screen. 
In bank, in bush, in hollow hole, 
High on the rocking tree, 
On the gray cliffs, that haughtily 
The ocean waves control ; 
Far in the solitary fen. 
On heath, and mountain hoar. 
Beyond the foot or fear of men, 
Or by the cottage door ; 
In grassy tuft, in ivy'd tower. 
Where'er directs the instinctive power, 
