134 
THE LANGUAGE OF BIRDS. 
If my good instrument and hand avail ; 
Or ^eak my fiddle^, and will own I fail. 
Not more ; but fiercely strikes the tuneful shell, 
From whence inimitable music fell. 
With eager hand he labours ev'ry string, 
While with the sound the woods and valleys ring. 
From chord to chord the bounding echo flies, 
Innumerable raptures fill the skies ; 
In vast variety his fiddle speaks, 
And vents his soul into a thousand breaks ; 
Takes a vast scope, and fills the spacious round. 
And proudly triumphs in unequal sound ; 
In a full chorus, all at last consent ; 
Then waits an answer, and expects th' event. 
The bird already wonders had perform^. 
Yet still her glowing breast ambition warmM ; 
Again collects her strength, again will try, 
Resolv'd to conquer, or prepar'd to die. 
In vain the combat she again renews ; 
In vain the complicated song pursues ; 
In vain her little bosom swells to time, 
Or, with her native force, such height would climb ; 
Puzzled and lost in labyrinths of sound. 
Is in a whirl of rapturous music drown'd. 
