Morning

In the barn the tenant Cock, Close to partlet perch'd on high, Briskly crows, (the shepherd's clock!) Jocund that the morning's nigh.

Swiftly from the mountain's brow, Shadows, nurs'd by night, retire: And the peeping sun-beam, now, Paints with gold the village spire.

Philomel forsakes the thorn, Plaintive where she prates at night; And the Lark, to meet the morn, Soars beyond the shepherd's sight.

From the low-roof'd cottage ridge, See the chatt'ring Swallow spring; Darting through the one-arch'd bridge, Quick she dips her dappled wing.

Now the pine-tree's waving top, Gently greets the morning gale: Kidlings, now, begin to crop Daisies, on the dewey dale.

From the balmy sweets, uncloy'd, (Restless till her task be done) Now the busy Bee's employ'd Sipping dew before the sun.

Trickling through the crevic'd rock, Where the limpid stream distills, Sweet refreshment waits the flock When 'tis sun-drove from the hills.

COLIN'S for the promis'd corn (E're the harvest hopes are ripe) Anxious;—whilst the huntsman's horn, Boldly sounding, drowns his pipe.

Sweet,—O sweet, the warbling throng, On the white emblossom'd spray! Nature's universal song Echos to the rising day.