THE LANGUAGE OF BIRDS. 
233 
Last warbler of the blooming year, 
Thy brother mates are flown ! 
Thy tender song is far more dear, 
From warbling thus alone. 
The following beautiful lines of Herrick, I think, 
are not inapplicable to the German chaffinch : — 
Charm me to sleep, and melt me so 
With thy delicious numbers. 
That, being ravished, hence I go 
Away in easy slumbers. 
Ah, make me weep 
My pains asleep. 
And give me such reposes, 
That I, poor I, 
May think thereby 
I live and die ^midst roses ! 
Fall on me like a silent dew, 
Or like those maiden showers 
Which, at the peep of day, do strew 
A baptism o'er the flowers. 
Melt, melt my pains, 
With thy soft strains, 
X 2 
