Sweet sung the lark, high pois'd in air

Sweet sung the lark, high pois'd in air,
When on as sweet a morn,
In Hymen's fane, one fate to share,
Anna and I were sworn.
Sweetly the thrush, in varied song,
The vacant joy encreas'd,
When kindly came the village throng
To join the marriage feast.
But sweeter sang the nightingale,
Love's herald of the grove,
When Cynthia, through the silver vale,
Led to the bow'r of love!

The lark's sweet morning song of joy
Is known by that content
A lovely girl and blooming boy
Are given us to cement:
The thrush still merrily at noon
In varied cadence sings,
When smiling fortune oft some boon,
To cheer our labour, brings;
Nor, time far distant, shall we grieve,
Though blessing now and blest,
When philomel, at nature's eve,
Shall lull us into rest.