190 THE LANGUAGE OF BIRDS. 
Must thou, sweet bird, no more thy master cheer ? 
No more shall I thine artless chauntings hear ! 
Oh, skiird in music's pure simplicity, 
How have my tranquil hours been blest by thee ! 
When tir'd with efforts of laborious thought, 
Sooth'd were my languors by thy sprightly note ; 
When borne, on Poesy's swift-sailing wing, 
To some fair scene, all paradise and spring, 
List'ning to thee, I felt a scene more fair, 
And, with a wilder transport, wander'd there ; 
When (by dark threatening clouds a captive made) 
I sigh'd for vernal scene and vocal shade. 
While thy domestic warblings chas'd my spleen 
I missed nor vocal shade, nor vernal scene. 
Each day I listened to thy varied song, 
Pleas'd with the labours of thy little tongue ; 
Sweet was thy song when morning shed its ray, 
Sweet was thy song when evening clos'd the day ; 
When care oppress'd me, thou couldst bid 
flee ; 
When friends were far, I found a friend in thee. 
:The most melodious dweller in the grove, 
Ne'er told, in notes so soft, its artless love. 
