318 
THE LANGUAGE OF BIRDS. 
The zephyr^s light air 
Is exchanged for the roar 
Of storms, and the May-fields have mantles of hoar. 
Then why do we stay 
In the north} where the sun 
More dimly each day 
His brief course will run ? 
And why need we sigh ? 
We leave but a grave, 
To cleave through the sky 
On the wings which God gave ; 
Then, Ocean, be welcome the roar of thy wave ! 
When earth's joys are o'er. 
And the days darkly roll ; 
When autumn winds roar. 
Weep not, O my soul ! 
Fair lands o'er the sea 
For the birds brightly bloom ; 
A land smiles for thee. 
Beyond the dark tomb. 
Where beams never-fading its beauties illume ! 
Stagnelius. 
{From the Quarterly Review,''') 
