THE LANGUAGE OF BIRDS. 
Or loves each jocund pair to dwell. 
Is built the cone, or feathery cell. 
Beautiful things ! than I, no boy 
Your traces may discern, 
Sparkling beneath the forest fern 
With livelier sense of joy : 
I would not bear them from the nest, 
To leave fond hearts regretting, 
But, like the soul screened in the breast, 
Like gems in beauteous setting, 
Amidst Spring's leafy, green array, 
I deem them ; and from day to day, 
Passing, I pause, to turn aside. 
With joy, the boughs where they abide. 
The mysteries of life's early day 
Lay thick as summer dew, 
Like it, they glitter'd and they flew 
With ardent youth away ; 
But not a charm of yours has faded, 
Ye are full of marvel still. 
