THE LANGUAGE OF BIRDS. 
341 
WINTER. 
Our ears the lark, the thrush, the turtle, blest. 
And Philomela, sweetest o'er the rest. 
So in the shades, where, cheer'd with summer rays. 
Melodious linnets warbled sprightly lays : 
Now when the nightingale to rest removes. 
The thrush may chant to the forsaken groves ; 
But, charm'd to silence, listens while she sings, 
And all th' aerial audience clap their wings. 
Soon as the faded, falling leaves complain 
Of gloomy winter's inauspicious reign, 
No tuneful voice is heard of joy and love. 
But mournful silence saddens all the grove ; 
All nature mourns, the skies relent in showers, 
Hush'd are the birds, and clos'd the drooping flowers ; 
The flowers now droop, forsaken by the spring ; 
The birds, when left by summer, cease to sing. 
Behold the groves that shine with silver frost, 
Their beauty wither'd, and their verdure lost ! 
No grateful dews descend from evening skies, 
Nor morning odours from the flowers arise ; 
No rich perfumes refresh the fruitful field. 
Nor fragrant herbs their native incense yield ; 
