308 THE LANGUAGE OF BIRDS. 
And millions of warblers that charmed us before, 
Have fled in the train of the sun-seeking swallow, 
The blue-bird, forsaken, yet true to his home. 
Still lingers and looks for a milder to-morrow. 
Till, forced by the horrors of winter to roam. 
He sings his adieu in a low note of sorrow. 
While springes lovely season, serene, dewy, and warm. 
The green face of earth and the pure blue of heav'n, 
Or love's native music, have influence to charm, 
Or sympathy's glow to our feelings is given. 
Still dear to each bosom the blue-bird shall be ; 
His voice, like the thrilling of hope, is a treasure ; 
For through bleakest storms if a calm he but see, 
He comes to remind us of sunshine and pleasure. 
Wilson. 
TO THE CUCKOO. 
O blithe new comer ! I have heard, 
I hear thee, and rejoice ; 
O cuckoo ! shall I call thee bird. 
Or but a wandering voice ? 
