THE LANGUAGE OF BIRDS. Ill 
Farewell, O warbler ! till to-morrow eve ; 
We have been loitering long and pleasantly. 
And now for our dear homes, — that strain again ? 
Full fain it would delay me ! My dear babe. 
Who, capable of no articulate sound. 
Mars all things with his imitative lisp, 
How he would place his hand beside his ear. 
His little hand, the small forefinger up, 
And bid us listen ! And I deem it wise 
To make him Nature's playmate ; and if Heaven 
Should give me life, his childhood shall grow up 
Familiar with songs, that with the night 
He may associate joy ! Once more, farewell, 
Sweet Nightingale ! 
Who would not love the sweet Philomel for call- 
ing forth such heart- touching strains, almost as 
exquisite as her own ! 
Being in a bad state of health last summer, I went 
to spend a short time with a friend at Hampton-court, 
where, during the nights, the song of the nightingale 
surpassed my powers of description ; perhaps the 
effect was heightened by hearing it so near the river, 
as we know how much more melodious music sounds 
from the water. Nightly, as I laid my fevered head 
