210 
THE LANGUAGE OF BIRDS. 
To the last point of vision, and beyond, 
Mount, daring Warbler ! that love-prompted strain, 
('Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond) 
Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain ; 
Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege ! to sing 
All independent of the leafy spring, 
Leave to the Nightingale her shady wood ; 
A privacy of glorious light is thine, 
Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood 
Of harmony, with rapture more divine ; 
Type of the wise, who soar, but never roam. 
True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home. 
Not less to be admired are the following, by our 
favourite. Burns 
O stay, sweet warbling woodlark, stay. 
Nor quit for me the trembling spray, 
A hapless lover courts thy lay, 
Thy soothing fond complaining. 
Again, again that tender part. 
That I may catch thy melting art ; 
For surely that wad touch her heart, 
Wha kills me wi' disdaining. 
