20At last (compos'd) his little head he rears,
Towards (what he strives to imitate) the spheres;
And chirping then begins his best,
Falls on to pipe among the rest;
Deeming that all's not worth a rush,
Without his whistle from the bush.
III.
Th' harmonious sound did reach my ear,
That echo'd thy clear name,
Which all must know, who e'er did hear