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THE LANGUAGE OF BIRDS. 
Who broke the clouds with one bright glance, 
And his jocund race begun. 
The crocus brought her sisters, too, 
The purple, pied, and white ; 
And the redbreast warbled merrily 
Above the flowerets bright. 
Oh ! the nightingale may love the rose, 
The lark the summer's heather ; 
But the robin's consort flow'rs come. 
And brave the wintry weather. 
We may surely consider poor robin an emblem of 
contentment and perseverance, not cast down by the 
casual changes of circumstances, but happy and 
thankful for what Providence bestows. 
Sweet bird, whom the winter constrains — 
And seldom another it can — 
To seek a retreat, while he reigns. 
In the well sheltered dwelling of man ; 
Who never can seem to intrude, 
Though in all places equally free, 
Come, oft as the season is rude, 
Thou art sure to be welcome to me. 
