THE LANGUAGE OF BIEDS. 195 
Dancing about, still at the giddy verge 
Their resolutions fail ; their pinions still, 
In loose vibration stretched, to trust the void. 
Trembling, refuse, till down before them fly 
The parent guides, and chide, exhort, command. 
Or push them off. The surging air receives 
The plumy burden ; and their self-taught wings 
Winnow the waving element. On ground 
Alighted, bolder up again they lead. 
Further and further on, the lengthening flight, 
Till vanish every fear, and every power 
Rous'd into life and action, light in air 
Th' acquitted parents see their soaring race. 
And, once rejoicing, never know them more. 
The dear little warbler whose likeness I have 
endeavoured to delineate, was one reared in a cage, 
but allowed his liberty whenever he chose to go out, 
the door being always left open. He was so familiar, 
that at breakfast time he used to sit upon my 
shoulder, and partake of my morning meal from my 
mouth, after which he usually flew out at the window 
to regale himself with the morning air, perching upon 
