THE LANGUAGE OF BIRDS. 
307 
He flits through the orchard, he visits each tree, 
The red flowVing peach, and the applets sweet blos- 
som, 
He snaps up destroyers wherever they be, 
And seizes the caitiffs that lurk in their bosoms ; 
He drags the vile grub from the corn it devours. 
The worms from their webs, where they riot and 
welter ; 
His song and his services freely are ours. 
And all that he asks is, in winter, a shelter. 
The ploughman is pleased when he gleans in his 
train. 
Now searching the furrows — now mounting to cheer 
him ; 
The gard'ner delights in his sweet, simple strain. 
And leans on his spade to survey and to hear him ; 
The slow lingering schoolboys forget they'll be chid, 
While gazing intent as he warbles before ^em, 
In mantle of sky-blue, and bosom so red. 
That each little loiterer seems to adore him. 
When all the gay scenes of summer are o'er, 
And autumn slow enters, so silent and sallow, 
