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For this, may no rude peasants, ere the dawn,
With noisy rattling of their loaded teams,
Drive you with mirth unfinish'd off the lawn,
Or in the vale disturb your pleasing dreams.
MUST thou, sweet bird, no more thy master cheer?
No more shall I thine artless chantings hear?
Oh, skill'd in music's pure simplicity,
How have my tranquil hours been bless'd by thee!
When tired with efforts of laborious thought,
Soothed were my languors by thy sprightly note:
When borne on Poësy's swift-sailing wing,
To some fair scene, all paradise and spring,
Listening to thee, I felt the scene more fair,
And with a wilder transport wander'd there:
When (by dark threatening clouds a captive made)
I sigh'd for vernal scene, and vocal shade,
While thy domestic warblings chased my spleen,
I miss'd nor vocal shade, nor vernal scene.
Each day I listen'd to thy varied song,
Pleased with the labours of thy little tongue;
Sweet was thy song, when morning shed its ray;
Sweet was thy song, when evening closed the day.
When care oppress'd me, thou couldst bid it flee;
When friends were far, I found a friend in thee.
The most melodious dweller in the grove,
Ne'er told in notes so soft its artless love.
Well knows the clear-toned blackbird how to sing,
And with sweet sounds to hail the welcome spring;
Charm'd with the song, the silent swain the while,
Leans on his staff, and listens with a smile;
Yet must the jetty songster's sweetest note
Yield to the strains that tremble in thy throat.
Oft have I mark'd the active sky-lark rise
On soaring wings, ambitious of the skies;
Oft have I stood the ascending song to hear,
Till the lost songster lessen'd into air:
Much have I praised the lively melody-
But more I prize the notes that flow from thee!
When the fallen sun but faintly streaks the sky,
And softer colours soothe the pensive eye;
The plaining chantress of the night I love,
Warbling her sadness to the silent grove;
Through the calm air the lone mellifluous song
Pours its full tide of harmony along:
Low it begins, while all is hush'd around,
And gently steals from silence into sound:
With gradual rise ascends the skilful lay,
Prolongs the liquid swell, and slowly melts away. I Sweet is the strain as Hammond's tender line,"
Dear is the song, but not so dear as thine.
DEAR boy, throw that icicle down,
And sweep this deep snow from the door;
Old Winter comes on with a frown,
A terrible frown for the poor.
'In a season so rude and forlorn,
How can age, how can infancy bear
The silent neglect and the scorn
Of those who have plenty to spare?
Fresh broach'd is my cask of old ale;
Well timed now the frost is set in-
Here's Job come to tell us a tale,
We'll make him at home to a pin.
Abundance was never my lot;
But out of the trifle that 's given, That no curse may alight on my cot,
I'll distribute the bounty of Heaven.
The fool and the slave gather wealth;
But if I add naught to my store,
Yet while I keep conscience in healthi
I've a mine that will never grow poor.
THERE is a flower, a little flower
With silver crest and golden eye,
That welcomes every changing hour,
And weathers every sky.
The prouder beauties of the field
In gay but quick succession shine;
Race after race their honours yield,
They flourish and decline.
But this small flower, to Nature dear,
While moons and stars their courses run,
Wreathes the whole circle of the year,
Companion of the sun.
It smiles upon the lap of May;
To sultry August spreads its charms;
Lights pale October on his way,
And twines December's arms.
The purple heath, and golden broom,
On moory mountains catch the gale;
O'er lawns the lily sheds perfume,
The violet in the vale.
But this bold floweret climbs the hill,
Hides in the forest, haunts the glen;
Plays on the margin of the rill,
Peeps round the fox's den.
Within the garden's cultured round
It shares the sweet carnation's bed;
And blooms on consecrated ground,
In honour of the dead.
The lambkin crops its crimson gem,
The wild-bee murmurs on its breast;
The blue-fly bends its pensile stem,
That decks the sky-lark's nest.
'Tis Flora's page: in every place, In every season, fresh and fair,
It opens with perennial grace,
And blossoms every where.
On waste and wood-land, rock and plain,
Its humble buds unheeded rise;
The rose has but a summer reign,
The daisy never dies.