Leave to the nightingale her shady wood;
A privacy of glorious light is thine;
Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood
Of harmony, with rapture more divine;
Type of the wise who soar but never roam;
Twin to the kindred points of Heaven and home.
Wordsworth.
LINES.
So when the lark, poor bird! afar espyeth
Her yet unfeathered children, whom to save