138 
THE LANGUAGE OF BIRDS. 
Ill all the pride of youthful charms, 
A beauteous bride torn from my circling arms ! 
A lovely babe, that should have liv^d to bless. 
And fill my doting eyes with frequent tears, 
At once the source of rapture and distress, 
The flattering prop of my declining years ! 
In vain from death to rescue I essay'd, 
By every art that science could devise ; 
Alas ! it languished for a mother's aid, 
And winged its flight to seek her in the skies : 
Then O ! our comforts be the same 
At evening's peaceful hour; 
To shun the noisy paths of v^ealth and fame. 
And breathe our sorrows in this lonely bower. 
But why, alas ! to thee complain ! 
To thee, unconscious of my pain ! 
Soon shalt thou cease to mourn thy lot severe, 
And hail the dawning of a happier year. 
The genial warmth of joy-renewing spring 
Again shall plume thy shattered wing ; 
Again thy little heart shall transport prove, 
Again shall flow thy notes responsive to thy love» 
