THE LANGUAGE OF BIRDS. 
Ye never knew 
The crimes for which we come to weep ; 
Penance is not for you, 
Blessed wanderers of the upper deep. 
To you 'tis given 
To make sweet nature's untaught lays ; 
Beneath the arch of heaven, 
To chirp away a life of praise. 
Then spread each wing 
Far, far above, o'er lakes and lands, 
And join the choirs that sing 
In yon blue dome, not reared with hands.. 
Or, if ye stay 
To note the consecrated hour. 
Teach me the airy way. 
And let me try your envied power. 
Above the crowd, 
On upward wings could I but fly, 
I'd bathe in yon bright cloud, 
And seek the stars that gem the sky. 
