SWEET are the warblings of the vernal choir
When love's soft impulse glows in every vein:
But sweeter far the music of thy strain:
Thy ardent bosom owns a nobler fire,
O gentle poet of the rural lyre!
Thy verse is crown'd with indeciduous bays;
Fair nature views her mirror in thy lays.
What forms celestial o'er my vision play?
What choral sympathies salute my ear?
Hark! 'tis the muses from th' ethereal sphere.
They chant the praises of thy Doric lay:–
Come, thou pride of rural song,
Sweep again the trembling wire:
Far from life's tumultuous throng
Tune thy sweetly plaintive lyre.
Where meandering currents stray,
Heav'n-reflecting crystal floods;
Where the gentle zephyrs play,
Whispering through the vernal woods.
Spring for thee shall weave a wreath
Of all her fairest, sweetest flowers;
Summer stay his fervid breath,
Or shield thee in umbrageous bowers.
For thee shall Autumn's nectar flow,
His golden fruit thy table spread;
And Winter's ruffian blasts shall blow,
Innocuous, o'er thy humble bed.