42 
THE LANGUAGE OF BIRDS, 
THE NOTES OF THE BIRDS. 
Well do I love those various harmonies 
That ring so gaily in spring's budding v^roods. 
And in the thickets of green quiet haunts, 
And lonely copses of the summer's ancient solitudes. 
If thou art pained with the world's noisy stir, 
Or crazed with its mad tumults, and weighed down 
With any of the ills of human life ; 
If thou art sick, and weak, or mournest at the loss 
Of brethren gone to that far distant land 
To which we all do pass, gentle and poor. 
The gayest and the gravest, all alike — 
Then turn into the peaceful woods, and hear 
The thrilling music of the forest birds. 
How rich the varied choir ! The unquiet finch 
Calls from the distant hollows, and the wren 
Uttereth her sweet and mellow plaint at times, 
And the thrush mourneth where the kalmia hangs 
Its crimson-spotted cups, or chirps, half hid. 
Amid the lowly dog -wood's snowy flowers, 
