THE LANGUAGE OF BIRDS. 
305 
TO THE CROW. 
Say, weary bird, whose level flight, 
Thus at the dusky hour of night, 
Tends thro^ the mid-way air. 
Why yet beyond the verge of day, 
Is lengthened out thy dark delay. 
Adding another to the hours of care. 
The wren, within her mossy nest. 
Has hushed her little brood to rest ; 
The wild wood pigeon rocked on high, 
Has coo'd his last soft note of love, 
And fondly nestles by his dove, 
To guard their downy young from an inclement 
sky. 
Haste, bird, and nurse thy callow brood, 
They call on Heav'n and thee for food. 
Bleak, — on some cliff's neglected tree ; 
Haste, weary bird, thy lagging flight, 
It is the chilling hour of night, 
'Tis hour of rest for thee ! 
D D 2 
