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THE LANGUAGE OF BIRDS. 
Thomson, in claiiinng the privilege of liberty for 
sweet Philomel, shews how much he admired that 
songster : — 
But let not chief the nightingale lament 
Her ruin'd care; too delicately fram'd 
To brook the harsh confinement of a cage. 
Oft when returning with her loaded bill, 
Th' astonished mother finds a vacant nest, 
By the hard hands of unrelenting clowns 
Robb'd, to the ground the vain provision falls ! 
Her pinions ruffle, and, low drooping, scarce 
Can bear the mourner to the poplar shade, 
Where, all abandoned to despair, she sings 
Her sorrows through the night ; and on the bough 
Sole sitting, still at every dying fall 
Takes up again her lamentable strain 
Of winding wo ; till, wide around, the woods 
Sigh to her song, and with her wail resound. 
Among poets of modern date, the following, by 
Loots, of Holland, ranks pre-eminent : — 
Soul of living music ? teach me — 
Teach me, floating thus along, 
