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Through the soft air, the busy nations fly, i
Cling to the bud, and, with inserted tube,
Suck its pure essence, its etherial soul;
And oft, with bolder wing, they soaring dare Dr.
The purple heath, or where the wild thyme grows,
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,
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 hurried eye

The forest darkening round, the glittering spire,
The' etherial 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 snowdrop and the crocus first;
The daisy, primrose, violet darkly blue,
And polyanthus of unnumber'd dyes;

The yellow wallflower, 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 ranunculas, of glowing red.

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,
Firstborn 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 Being! 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
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 coloured scene of things.
As rising from the vegetable world

My theme ascends, with equal wing ascend,
My panting Muse; and hark, how loud the woods
Invite you forth in all your gayest trim.
Lend me your song, ye nightingales! oh, 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.
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 quiristers that lodge within, lore
Are prodigal of harmony. The thrush

And woodlark, o'er the kind contending throng
Superior heard, run through the sweetest length n
Of notes; when listening Philomela deigns
To let them joy, and purposes, in thought
Elate, to make her night excel their day.
The blackbird whistles from the thorny brake;
The mellow bullfinch 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 stockdove breathes
A melancholy murmur through the whole.

'Tis love creates their melody, and all
This waste of music is the voice of love;
That e'en to birds and beasts the tender arts
Of pleasing teaches. Hence the glossy kinds
Try every winning way inventive love m sand #
Can dictate, and in courtship to their mates
Pour forth their little souls. First, wide around, C
With distant awe, in airy rings they rove,
Endeavouring by a thousand tricks to catch is
The cunning, conscious, half averted glanced En
Of their regardless charmer. Should she seem d
Softening the least approvance to bestow, yd se

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Their colours burnish, and by hope inspired
They brisk advance; then, on a sudden struck,
Retire disorder'd ; then again approach; oow bal
In fond rotation spread the spotted winged roirqN
And shiver every feather with desire.

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Connubial leagues agreed, to the deep woods
They haste away, all as their fancy leads, 5
Pleasure, or food, or secret safety prompts; P
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
Commit their feeble offspring. The cleft tree
Offers its kind concealment to a few,

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,
Steep, and divided by a babbling brook,

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Whose murmurs sooth them all the livelong 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,en eba
And bound with clay together. Now 'tis nought
But restless hurry through the busy air, C
Beat by unnumber'd wings. The swallow sweeps

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