290 
THE LANGUAGE OF BIRDS. 
I do love 
That fearless bird : all the long winter thro^, 
'Midst snow and frost, and bitter cold he came, 
Greeting me daily with his rich sweet voice ; 
Nor e'er went unremembered. 
E'en before 
The poet's nightingale, the redbreast holds 
A place in my esteem ; for she seems coy, 
Distant, capricious, and commands you forth 
To listen and admire her in her pride 
Of conscious excellence, — like beauty, vain. 
And claiming such our homage as her right ; 
While my own merry robin comes to cheer 
Our gloomy winter with his lively song. 
He comes to ws, and, perched on twig or gate, 
Or on the chimney top, or window sill, 
Sits warbling sweetly on his welcome lay. 
The rose is for the nightingale, 
The heather for the lark ; 
But the holly greets the redbreast 
'Mid winter drear and dark ; 
And the snow-drop, wakened by his song. 
Peeps tremblingly forth. 
