240 
THE LANGUAGE OF BIRDS, 
The treasure proudly did I shew 
To some, whose minds without disdain 
Can turn to little things ; but once 
Looked up for it in vain. 
'Tis gone — a ruthless spoiler's prey. 
Who heeds not beauty, love, or song — 
'Tis gone (so seemed it), and we grieved, 
Indignant at the wrong. 
Just three days after, passing by, 
In clearer light, the moss-built cell, 
I saw — espied its shaded mouth. 
And felt that all was well. 
The primrose for a veil had spread 
The largest of her upright leaves ; 
And thus, for purposes benign, 
A simple flower deceives. 
Concealed from friends who might disturb 
Thy quiet with no ill intent. 
Secure from evil eye, and hands 
On barbarous plunder bent. 
