The latent rill, scarce oozing through the grass,
Of growth luxuriant; or the humid bank,
In fair profusion, decks. Long let us walk,
Where the breeze blows from yon extended field

Of blossom'd beans. Arabia cannot boast

A fuller gale of joy, than, liberal, thence

Breathes through the sense, and takes the ravish'd soul.
Nor is the mead unworthy of thy foot,

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Full of fresh verdure, and unnumber'd flowers,

The negligence of Nature, wide and wild ;

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Where, undisguised by mimic Art, she spreads
Unbounded beauty to the roving eye.

Here their delicious task the fervent bees,

In swarming millions, tend: around, athwart,
Through the soft air, the busy nations fly,
Cling to the bud, and, with inserted tube,
Suck its pure essence, its ethereal soul;

The purple heath, or where the wild thyme grows,

And oft, with bolder wing, they soaring dare

And yellow load them with the luscious spoil.
At length the finish'd garden to the view

Its vistas opens, and its alleys green.

Snatch'd through the verdant maze, the hurried eye
Distracted wanders; now the bowery walk

Of covert close, where scarce a speck of day

Falls on the lengthen'd gloom, protracted sweeps ;
Now meets the bending sky; the river now
Dimpling along, the breezy-ruffled lake,

The forest darkening round, the glittering spire,
The' ethereal mountain, and the distant main.
But why so far excursive? when at hand,
Along these blushing borders, bright with dew,
And in yon mingled wilderness of flowers,
Fair-handed Spring unbosoms every grace;
Throws out the snow-drop and the crocus first;
The daisy, primrose, violet darkly blue,
And polyanthus of unnumber'd dyes;
The yellow wall-flower, stain'd with iron-brown;
And lavish stock that scents the garden round :
From the soft wing of vernal breezes shed,
Anemonies; auriculas, enrich'd

With shining meal o'er all their velvet leaves;
And full ranunculus', of glowing red.

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Then comes the tulip-race, where Beauty plays
Her idle freaks; from family diffused
To family, as flies the father-dust,

The varied colours run; and, while they break
On the charm'd eye, the' exulting florist marks,
With secret pride, the wonders of his hand,
No gradual bloom is wanting; from the bud,
First-born of Spring, to Summer's musky tribes :
Nor hyacinths, of purest virgin white,

Low-bent, and blushing inward; nor jonquils,
Of potent fragrance; nor Narcissus fair,
As o'er the fabled fountain hanging still;
Nor broad carnations, nor gay-spotted pinks;
Nor, shower'd from every bush, the damask-rose.
Infinite numbers, delicacies, smells,

With hues on hues expression cannot paint,
The breath of Nature, and her endless bloom!
Hail, Source of Beings! Universal Soul
Of Heaven and earth! Essential Presence, hail !
To Thee I bend the knee; to Thee my thoughts,
Continual, climb; who, with a master-hand,
Hast the great whole into perfection touch'd.
By Thee the various vegetative tribes,

Wrapp'd in a filmy net, and clad with leaves,

Draw the live ether, and imbibe the dew:

By Thee disposed into congenial soils,

Stands each attractive plant, and sucks, and swells

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The juicy tide; a twining mass of tubes.

At Thy command the vernal Sun awakes

The torpid sap, detruded to the root

By wintry winds; that now in fluent dance,
And lively fermentation, mounting, spreads
All this innumerous-colour'd scene of things.
As rising from the vegetable world
My theme ascends, with equal wing ascend,

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My panting Muse; and hark, how loud the woods

Invite you forth in all your gayest trim.

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Lend me your song, ye nightingales! O pour

The mazy-running soul of melody

Into my varied verse! while I deduce,

From the first note the hollow cuckoo sings,

The symphony of Spring, and touch a theme
Unknown to fame, the passion of the groves.

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When first the soul of love is sent abroad,
Warm through the vital air, and on the heart
Harmonious seizes, the gay troops begin,

In gallant thought, to plume the painted wing;
And try again the long-forgotten strain,

At first faint-warbled. But no sooner grows
The soft infusion prevalent, and wide,
Than, all alive, at once their joy o'erflows
In music unconfined. Up springs the lark,
Shrill-voiced, and loud, the messenger of morn;
Ere yet the shadows fly, he mounted sings

Amid the dawning clouds, and from their haunts
Calls up the tuneful nations. Every copse
Deep-tangled, tree irregular, and bush

Bending with dewy moisture, o'er the heads
Of the coy choristers that lodge within,
Are prodigal of harmony. The thrush

And wood-lark, o'er the kind-contending throng
Superior heard, run through the sweetest length
Of notes; when listening Philomela deigns
To let them joy, and purposes, in thought
Elate, to make her night excel their day.
The black-bird whistles from the thorny brake;
The mellow bull-finch answers from the grove:
Nor are the linnets, o'er the flowering furze
Pour'd out profusely, silent. Join'd to these
Innumerous songsters, in the freshening shade
Of new-sprung leaves, their modulations mix
Mellifluous. The jay, the rook, the daw,
And each harsh pipe, discordant heard alone,
Aid the full concert: while the stock-dove breathes

A melancholy murmur through the whole.
"Tis love creates their melody, and all

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590

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This waste of music is the voice of love;
That even to birds, and beasts, the tender arts

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Of pleasing teaches. Hence the glossy kind

Try every winning way inventive love
Can dictate, and in courtship to their mates
Pour forth their little souls. First, wide around,
With distant awe, in airy rings they rove,
Endeavouring by a thousand tricks to catch
The cunning, conscious, half-averted glance
Of their regardless charmer. Should she seem

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Softening the least approvance to bestow,
Their colours burnish, and, by hope inspired,
They brisk advance; then, on a sudden struck,
Retire disorder'd; then again approach;
In fond rotation spread the spotted wing,
And shiver every feather with desire.

Connubial leagues agreed, to the deep woods
They haste away, all as their fancy leads,
Pleasure, or food, or secret safety prompts;
That Nature's great command may be obey'd,
Nor all the sweet sensations they perceive
Indulged in vain. Some to the holly-hedge
Nestling repair, and to the thicket some;
Some to the rude protection of the thorn

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Commit their feeble offspring: the cleft tree
Offers its kind concealment to a few,

640

Their food its insects, and its moss their nests.

Others apart far in the grassy dale,

Or roughening waste, their humble texture weave.

But most in woodland solitudes delight,

In unfrequented glooms, or shaggy banks,

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Steep, and divided by a babbling brook,

Whose murmurs soothe them all the live-long day,

When by kind duty fix'd. Among the roots

Of hazel, pendent o'er the plaintive stream,

They frame the first foundation of their domes;
Dry sprigs of trees, in artful fabric laid,

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And bound with clay together. Now 't is nought
But restless hurry through the busy air,

Beat by unnumber'd wings. The swallow sweeps
The slimy pool, to build his hanging house
Intent. And often, from the careless back
Of herds and flocks, a thousand tugging bills

655

Pluck hair and wool; and oft, when unobserved,

Steal from the barn a straw: till soft and warm,

Clean and complete, their habitation grows.
As thus the patient dam assiduous sits,

660

Not to be tempted from her tender task,

Or by sharp hunger, or by smooth delight,

Though the whole loosen'd Spring around her blows,

Her sympathizing lover takes his stand

665

High on the' opponent bank, and ceaseless sings

The tedious time away; or else supplies

SPRING.

Her place a moment, while she sudden flits
To pick the scanty meal. The' appointed time
With pious toil fulfill'd, the callow young,
Warm'd and expanded into perfect life,

Their brittle bondage break, and come to light,
A helpless family, demanding food

With constant clamour. O what passions then,
What melting sentiments of kindly care,

On the new parents seize! Away they fly
Affectionate, and undesiring bear

The most delicious morsel to their young;

Which equally distributed, again

The search begins. Even so a gentle pair,

680

By fortune sunk, but form'd of generous mould,

And charm'd with cares beyond the vulgar breast,

In some lone cot amid the distant woods,

Sustain'd alone by providential Heaven,

Oft, as they weeping eye their infant train,
Check their own appetites, and give them all.
Nor toil alone they scorn: exalting love,
By the great Father of the Spring inspired,
Gives instant courage to the fearful race,
And, to the simple, art. With stealthy wing,

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Should some rude foot their woody haunts molest,

Amid a neighbouring bush they silent drop,
And whirring thence, as if alarm'd, deceive

The' unfeeling school-boy. Hence, around the head

In long excursion skims the level lawn,

Of wandering swain, the white-wing'd plover wheels
Her sounding flight, and then directly on

695

To tempt him from her nest. The wild-duck, hence,

O'er the rough moss, and o'er the trackless waste

The heath-hen flutters, (pious fraud !) to lead

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The hot pursuing spaniel far astray.

Be not the Muse ashamed here to bemoan
Her brothers of the grove, by tyrant man
Inhuman caught, and in the narrow cage
From liberty confined, and boundless air.
Dull are the pretty slaves, their plumage dull,
Ragged, and all its brightening lustre lost;
Nor is that sprightly wildness in their notes,
Which, clear and vigorous, warbles from the beech.
O then, ye friends of love and love-taught song,

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