THE LANGUAGE OF BIRDS. 
And, bat for some pale saddening shrine^ 
The scene so bright and fair, 
Would make the fond heart half forget 
That ruin had been there ! 
The cuckoo hails the path of spring, 
The silent vale along ; 
And pours, amid the hush of eve, 
Her far and fitful song. 
The hermit nightingale sits lone, 
Amid the leafy bowers. 
And 'plains to listening groves, 
At twilight's pale and starry hours. 
The music of the grove and stream, 
The torrent's distant fall, 
That soothed the wand'ring of my youth. 
Its glowing dreams recal. 
Its hopes, like blossoms of the sky, 
That sprung in early hours ; 
Too fair to last, and sadly changed 
To memory's faded flowers. 
