In Tyningham’s delicious woods

In Tyningham’s delicious woods Her early song the milk-maid sings, While from the deep’ning solitudes The spotted plover upward springs; The woodlark, on the lofty spray, Pours forth the soul of harmony; The shrill-toned linnet, in the bush, Chimes music with the mellow thrush; And nameless birds of speckled wing, And golden hues, their offerings bring, To hail the pilgrim as he gleams By coppiced woods and shaded streams; And as I blithely pace the mead, Fresh with the morning dew, The flowery carpet which I tread Glistens with glassy hue; Enamour’d of the cloudless day Each floweret woos the sunny ray: Here, gleaming through its mossy hair. The wild-rose waves in scented air, While blue-bells hang their star-like gems, And pinks and cowslips scatter’d near, In nature’s varied colours clear, Gleam lovely on their dewy stems. Above, arcades tower o’er my head Like sculptured arches wove on high, Which round a solemn grandeur spread, Veiling with clouds of leaves the sky.