166 
THE LANGUAGE OF BIRDS. 
Fit to fell or fetter thee. 
Gayest, freest of the free, 
Reeling, whistling shrill on high, 
Where yon turrets kiss the sky ; 
Teasing, with thy idle din. 
Drowsy daws at rest within ; 
Long thou lov'st to sport and spring 
On thy never-wearying wing. 
Lower now, 'midst foliage cool, 
Swift thou skim'st the peaceful pool. 
Where the speckled trout at play, 
Rising, shares thy dancing prey. 
While the treacherous circles swell. 
Wide and wider where it fell ; 
Guiding sure the angler's arm 
Where to find the finny swarm ; 
How, with artificial fly. 
Best to lure the victim's eye. 
Till, emerging from the brook, 
Brisk it bites the barbed hook ; 
Tugging, in unequal strife, 
With its death, disguised as life. 
Till it breathless beats the shore. 
Ne'er to cleave the current more. 
