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From snowy plains, and icy sprays,
From moonless nights, and sunless days,
Welcome, poor bird ! I'll cherish thee;
I love thee, for thou trustest me.
Thrice welcome, helpless, panting guest !
Fondly I'll warm thee in


How quick thy little heart is beating!
As if its brother flutterer greeting.
Thou need’st not dread a captive's doom ;
No ! freely flutter round my room ;
Perch on my lute's remaining string,
And sweetly of sweet summer sing.

That note, that summer note, I know :
It wakes at once, and soothes my woe;
I see those woods, I see that stream,
I see-ah, still prolong the dream !
Still with the songs those scenes renew,
Though through my tears they reach my


No more now, at my lonely meal, While thou art by, alone. I'll feel : For soon, devoid of all distrust, Thou ’lt nibbling share my

humble crust; Or on my finger, pert and spruce, Thou 'lt learn to sip the sparkling juice, And when (our short collation o'er) Some favourite volume I explore, Be't work of poet, or of sage, Safe thou shalt hop across the page ; Uncheck'd shalt flit o'er Virgil's groves, Or Autter 'mid Tibullus' loves. Thus, heedless of the raving blast, Thou ’lt dwell with me till winter 's past; And when the primrose tells 't is spring, And when the thrush begins to sing, Soon as I hear the woodland song, Freed, thou shalt join the vocal throng.

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Beneath these fruit-tree boughs, that shed Their snow-white blossoms on my head, With brightest sunshine round me spread

Of spring's unclouded weather ; In this sequester'd nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard-seat, And birds and flowers once more to greet,

My last year's friends together.

One have I mark’d, the happiest guest
In all this covert of the blest;
Hail to thee, far above the rest

In joy of voice and pinion,

Thou Linnet ! in thy green array,
Presiding spirit here to-day,
Dost lead the revels of the May,

And this is thy dominion.

While birds, and butterflies, and flowers
Make all one band of paramours,
Thou, ranging up and down the bowers,

Art sole in thy employment;
A life, a presence like the air,
Scattering thy gladness without care,
Too blest with any one to pair,

Thyself thy own enjoyment.

Upon yon tuft of hazel trees,
That twinkle to the gusty breeze,
Behold him perch'd in ecstacies,

Yet seeming still to hover ;
There ! where the flutter of his wings
Upon his back and body flings
Shadows and sunny glimmerings,

That cover him all over.

My sight he dazzles, half deceives,
A bird so like the dancing leaves ;
Then flits, and from the cottage eaves

Pours forth his song in gushes ;

As if by that exulting strain,
He mock'd and treated with disdain
The voiceless form he chose to feign,

While fluttering in the bushes.



And, where of Indian hills the daylight takes
His leave, oft might you the Flamingo see,
Disporting, like a meteor, on the lakes.-
And playful squirrel on his nut-grown tree ;
And every sound of life was full of glee,

merry mock-bird's song, or hum of men; While heark’ning, fearing nought, their revelry, The wild deer arch'd his neck from glades,

and then, Unhunted, sought his woods and wilderness


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