IN the barn the tenant cock,

Close to Partlet perch'd on higli, Briskly crows, (the Mepherd's clock!)

Jocund that the morning's nigh. Swiftly from the mountain's brow,

Shadows, nurs'd by night, retire:' And the peeping fun-beam, now,

Paints with gold the village spire.
Philomel forfakes the thorn,

Plaintive where the prates at night;
And the lark, to meet the morn,
Soars beyond the shepherd's fight.

Fervid on the glitt'ring flood,

Now, the noon-tide radiance glows: Drooping o’er its infant bud,

Not a dew-drop's left the rose. By the brook the shepherd dines;

From the fierce meridian heat Shelter'd, by the branching pines,

Pendent o'er his graffy feat.