THE LANGUAGE OF BIRDS. 
157 
But still, along the cooler lake, 
Where flash'd the waters bright, 
I marked the sportive swallows take 
Their race of wild delight. 
Now high in air, I saw them fling 
Their many-circling sweep — 
Now, stooping, brush with rapid wing 
The bosom of the deep. 
Beside the bank, intent to kill, 
I marked their frolic game, 
And oft with too successful skill 
I took the deadly aim, 
Upo'n the glossy mirror spread, 
My bleeding victims lay — 
In one short pang for ever fled 
Their reckless summer's day. 
But one at length, less quickly slain, 
With broken pinion fell ; 
With life enough to feel his pain. 
And scream his wild farewell ; 
p 
