THE LANGUAGE OF BIRDS. 
165 
'Twere Heaven indeed, 
Through fields of trackless light to soar, 
On Nature's charms to feed. 
And Nature's own great God adore. 
Sprague. 
EVENING. 
Hush, ye songsters ! day is done ; 
See how sweet the setting sun 
Gilds the welkin's .boundless breast. 
Smiling as he sinks to rest. 
Now the swallow down tlie dell, 
Issuing from her noontide cell, 
Mocks the deftest marksman's aim. 
Tumbling in fantastic game. 
Sweet inhabitants of air ! 
Sure thy bosom holds no care ; 
Not the fowler, full of wrath, 
Skilful in the deeds of death ; 
Not the darting hawk on high, 
Ruthless tyrant of the sky, 
Owns one art of cruelty 
