THE LANGUAGE OF BIRDS. 
1 
Unequal to the mighty task, she fails ; 
Great is her courage, but her grief prevails ; 
Reluctant yields a triumph hardly won, 
And gives one deep, melodious, dying groan ; 
Drops on his fiddle, and resigns her breath ; 
A noble sepulchre ! a glorious death ! 
At w^hat could such an emulation aim ? 
At what, but conquest and a future fame ? 
Who can the depth of forming nature tell I 
Or who imagine, in an animal. 
There should such generous seeds of glory dwell. 
ADIEU TO THE NIGHTINGALE. 
Sweet poet of the woods, a long adieu ! 
Farewell, soft minstrel of the early year ! 
Ah ! 'twill be long ere thou shalt sing anew, 
And pour thy music on " the night's dull ear." 
Whether on spring thy wand 'ring flights await. 
Or whether silent in our groves thou dwell, 
The pensive muse shall own thee for her mate, 
And still protract the song she loves so well. 
