44 
THE LANGUAGE OF BIRDS. 
The lonely heron sits, and harshly breaks 
The sabbath silence of the wilderness ; 
And you may find her by some reedy pool, 
Or brooding gloomily on the time-stained rock, 
Beside some misty and far-reaching lake. 
Most awful is thy deep and heavy boom. 
Grey watcher of the waters ! Thou art king 
Of the blue lake ; and all the winged kind 
Do fear the echo of thy angry cry. 
How bright thy savage eye ! Thou lookest down 
And seest the shining fishes as they glide ; 
And, poising thy grey wing, thy glossy beak, 
Swift as an arrow, strikes its roving prey. 
Ofttimes I see thee, through the curling mist. 
Dart like a spectre of the night, and hear 
Thy strange bewildering call, like the wild scream 
Of one whose life is perishing in the sea. 
And now wouldst thou, O man, delight the ear 
With earth's delicious sounds, or charm the eye 
With beautiful creations ? Then pass forth, 
And find them midst those many-coloured birds 
That fill the glowing woods. The richest hues 
