THE LANGUAGE OF BIRDS. 133 
The wondering fiddler, in attention fixt, 
Now with his rival, now himself, perplext, 
Admires the harmony, and whence it flows, 
From what such numerous modulations rose. 
In lofty flights he next attempts to rise, 
And with a bolder stroke his fiddle tries ; 
The sharp in smaller flourishes he proves. 
Slurs it along, and to the grave he moves : 
The grave in strong and louder strains resound. 
Beats the wide skies, and from the vales rebounds. 
The rough, the smooth, the deep, the sharp unite, 
And, from their discord, yield a strange delight. 
This Philomela tries, and, with her throat, 
In little quavers shakes the trembling note : 
But, suddenly to other measures run, 
Mounts in her voice, and raises high the tone. 
Calls up her strength, and throws out all her pow'r. 
And sings, and chants, and makes a glorious roar : 
Nor rests ; but brightens still, and boldly dares 
To imitate the thunder of the wars. 
Abash'd; amaz'd, the angry fiddler stood ; 
Then thus bespoke the songster of the wood : — 
Presumptuous bird ! to match unrivall'd skill, 
As yet unmatched, unrivall'd still, 
N 
