THE LANGUAGE OF BIRDS. 
121 
Love-sick warbler, come and reach me, 
With the secrets of thy song. 
How thy beak, so sweetly tremblingj 
On one note long lingering tries — 
On a thousand tones assembling, 
Pours the rush of harmonies ; 
Or, when rising shrill and shriller, 
Other music dies away, 
Other songs grow still and stiller — 
Songsters of the night and day ! 
Till, all sunk iii silence round thee — 
Not a whisper — ^not a word — 
Not a leaf-fall to confound thee — 
Breathless all, thou only heard. 
Tell me, thou who failest never. 
Minstrel of the songs of spring. 
Did the world see ages ever. 
When thy voice forgot to sing ? 
Is there, in thy woodland hist'ry. 
Any Homer, whom ye read ? 
Has your music aught of myst'ry— 
Has it measure, cliff, and creed ? 
Have ye teachers who instruct ye. 
Checking each ambitious strain — 
