THE LANGUAGE OF BIRDS. 
291 
From her bed of cold still slumber, 
To gaze upon the earth ; 
For the merry voice above her, 
Seemed a herald of the spring, 
As o'er the sleeping flowers 
Blithe robin came to sing. 
" Up, up ! my lady Snow-drop ! 
No longer lie in bed. 
But dance unto my melody, 
And wave your graceful head. 
The bulbul wooes the red red rose. 
The lark the heathery dell ; 
But the robin has the holly tree. 
And the snow-drop's virgin bell.*' 
The snow-drop timidly looked out, 
But all was dim and drear. 
Save robin's merry song, that sought 
Her loneliness to cheer. 
And presently the crocus heard 
Their greeting, and awoke. 
And donned with care her golden robe, 
And em 'raid-coloured cloak. 
And springing from her russet shroud. 
Stepped forth to meet the sun. 
