THE LANGUAGE OF BIRDS. 
43 
And the blue jay flits by, from tree to tree, 
And, spreading its rich pinions, fills the ear 
With its shrill-sounding and unsteady cry. 
With the sweet airs of spring, the robin comes ; 
And in her simple song there seems to gush 
A strain of sorrow when she visiteth 
Her last year's withered nest. But when the gloom 
Of the deep twilight falls, she takes her perch 
Upon the red-stemmed hazeFs slender twig 
That overhangs the brook, and suits her song 
To the slow rivulet's inconstant chime. 
In the last days of Autumn, when the corn 
Lies sweet and yellow in the harvest field. 
And the gay company of reapers bind 
The bearded wheat in sheaves, — then peals abroad 
The blackbird's merry chant. I love to hear. 
Bold plunderer, thy mellow burst of song 
Float from thy watch-place on the mossy tree, 
Close at the corn-field edge. 
Far up some brook's still course, whose current mines 
The forest's blackened roots, and whose green marge 
Is seldom visited by human foot. 
