THE LANGUAGE OF BIRDS. 327 
EPITAPH ON A BLACKBIRD KILLED BY 
A HAWK. 
Winter was o'er, and spring-flowers deck'd the glade, 
The blackbird's note among the wild woods rung : 
Ah, short-lived note! the songster now is laid 
Beneath the bush on which so sweet he sung. 
Thy jetty plumes, by ruthless falcon rent, 
Are now all soil'd among the mouldering clay ; 
A primrose turf is all thy monument, 
And for thy dirge the redbreast lends his lay. 
Grahame. 
THE sparrow's NEST. 
Look, five blue eggs are gleaming there ! 
Few visions have I seen more fair, 
Nor many prospects of delight. 
More pleasing than that simple sight ! 
I started, seeming to espy 
The home and sheltered bed. 
