To the Swallow

DEAR Bird, thy Tunes and Sportings here,
Delight us all the Day;
Who dwell'st amongst us half the Year,
And then art forc'd away.

Thou canst not Winter's Fury bear,
But cross the Southern Main,
To warmer Africk dost repair,
Till Spring return again.

But, Ah! No Force of Storm, or Art,
Drives Cupid from my Brest,
He took Possession of my Heart,
And in it built his Nest.

This Bird there hatches all his Young,
Where each by Instinct led,
Learns of its Sire his Tricks and Song,
With Shell upon its Head.

And e'er these Loves have plum'd their Wings,
They multiply apace,
For as one plays, or cryes, or sings,
It propagates its Race.

Now their Confusion's grown so loud,
It cannot be exprest:
I've such Disturbance with the Crowd,
They give my Soul no Rest.