THE LANGUAGE OF BIRDS. 
Far from the scenes that erst could please ; 
Secluded from the winged race ; 
Canst thou inhale the vernal breeze, 
Nor wish thy former haunts to trace ? 
If thou canst hail the god of day, 
When, dim with mists, he meets thine eye, 
Will his bright beams less joy convey 
When blazing in a cloudless sky ? 
Or from the hour when first in air 
Kind nature taught thy wing to soar, 
Hast thou not fled to lands more fair, 
Or tried a clime unknown before ? 
Go, silly bird, on pinion free. 
And seek the verdant bowers of spring ; 
There fly unchecked from tree to tree. 
With bosom light, and rapid wing. 
Had I the power which thou enjoy'st. 
To roam at will from shore to shore, 
Soon would I quit this scene of noise. 
And tread its cheerless streets no more. 
