118 
THE LANGUAGE OF BIRDS. 
Pale sorrow's victims wert thou once among, 
Though now released, in woodlands wild to rove ; 
Say — hast thou felt from friends some cruel wrong? 
Or, diest thou martyr of disastrous love ? 
Ah, songster sad ! that such my lot might be. 
To sigh and sing at liberty, — like thee ! 
The Eastern poets have eulogized this sweet bird, 
imagining, among other beautiful fictions, that he is 
enamoured of the rose. 
So, when the nightingale, in Eastern bowers, 
On quiv'ring pinions wooes the queen of flowers, 
Inhales her fragrance as he hangs in air, 
And melts with melody the blushing fair ; 
Half rose, half bird, a beauteous monster springs, 
Waves his thin leaves, and claps his glossy wings ; 
Long horrent thorns his mossy legs surround, 
And tendril talons root him to the ground ; 
Green films of rind his wrinkled neck overspread 
And crimson'd petals crest his curled head ; 
Soft warbling beaks in each bright blossom move. 
And vocal rose-buds thrill th' enchanted grove ; 
