THE LANGUAGE OF BIRDS. 
311 
Till I dream that I float on a corse at sea. 
And sing of the feast that is made for me ; 
I love on the rush of the storm to sail, 
And mingle my scream with the hoarser gale. 
When the sky is dark, and the billow high, 
And the tempest sweeps in terror by, 
I love to ride on the maddening blast. 
And flap my wing o^er the fated mast, 
And sing to the crew a song of fear. 
Of the reef and the surge that await them here. 
When the storm is done, and the feast is o'er, 
I love to sit on the rocky shore. 
And tell, in the ear of the dying breeze, 
The tales that are hushed in the sullen seas : — 
Of the ship that sank in the reefy surge, 
And left her fate to the sea-bird's dirge : — 
Of the lover that sailed to meet his bride, 
And his story left to the secret tide : — 
Of the father that went on the trustless main. 
And never was met by his child again : — 
And the hidden things which the waves conceal, 
And the sea-bird's song can alone reveal. 
