302 
THE LANGUAGE OF BIRDS. 
Spheres rendered asunder, 
When thunderbolts dart, 
I demand of the thunder. 
If proud beats his heart. 
In my youth, I delighted 
To gaze on the sun, 
When his radiance affrighted 
All breasts but my own. 
When Death's angel draws near, 
May his form be a cloud, 
Be the lightning his spear, 
And the ocean my shroud. 
Young. 
THE swan's melody. 
I am, indeed, a lady fair. 
And proudly sail on glossy stream, 
Nor seek my food with toil and care. 
My life is all a sunny dream. 
