THE LANGUAGE OF BIRDS. 
277 
The mild breath of spring, from their covert profound, 
Call'd the leaves into light and bespangled the 
ground ; 
Ah! then, 'mid the blaze of prosperity's reign, 
I sought for my robin, but sought him in vain. 
Now the summer is past, and the forest is bare. 
At my window thou standest — a sad spectacle there — 
Cold and shivering, my pardon thou seem'st to im- 
plore, 
And to ask for the hand that once fed thee before. 
Come, banish thy grief, nor past folly bewail, 
My love is a store-house that never will fail ; 
At evenings, at mornings, at noon, and at night, 
To feed my sweet bird shall still give me delight. 
Ah ! why should I thus thy inconstancy chide ? 
Have I no coviction of crimes deeper dyed? 
Though of reason possessed, and instruction divine. 
My spirit is far more ungrateful than thine. 
B B 
