Attempting it, he falls a prey to puss, poor bird!
His wings well pinioned, he soars high in breezy air;
Needs no encouragement; his instinct leads him there.
Each howling imp is stilled at sound of thy sole voice;
And words from thee are utmost joy to all our race.
Our ears are gladdened as they catch thy tongue’s converse,
Each desert grows a garden, when thou’rt freshness’ source.
With thee amongst us, earth a foretaste gives of heaven,
Thou’rt our delight, from morn to eve our longed-for leaven.275
Without thee, day’s refulgence we cannot employ,