224 
THE LANGUAGE OF BIRDS. 
Water, with streaks of saffron dy'd, 
Rich draughts from crystal font supply 'd. 
A shew of bliss his state express'd, 
Tho' splendid servitude at best. 
But now what refuge, or relief, 
tl^an hide his shame, or soothe his grief ? 
While standing, oft disclos'd before him, 
With hateful form, oft hov'ring o^er him ; 
Clapping his sooty wings, his foe. 
Adds insults to the captive's woe. 
Where's now," cries he, " thy scorn or boast ? 
What's wit, or beauty, freedom lost ? 
Tho' gay thy prison, firm its hold ; 
And fetters gall, tho' made of gold. 
Hence, warbling slave, be this thy strain, 
Thy excellence but proves thy bane : 
Whilst I, in my defects, am bless'd, 
Thou still art wretched, tho* caress'd ; 
The meanest, thanks to nature owe ; 
And chance can bring the vainest low.'^ 
