The Spring

Now the feathered train in each bush,
Court their mates, and love’s melody sing--
The blackbird, the linnet, and thrush,
Make the echoing vallies to ring:

The bird with the crimson-dy’d breast,
From the hamlet has made his remove;
To join his love-song with the rest,
And woo his fond mate in the grove.

The lark, high in æther afloat,
Each morn, at the usher of day,
Attunes his wild-warbling throat,
And sings his melodious lay.

Yon bank lately cover’d with snow,
Now smiles in the spring’s bloomy pride;
And the sweet-scented primroses grow,
Near the streamlet’s sweet-gurgling tide.

To the banks of the Tyne we’ll away,
And view th’ enrapturing scene;
While Flora, the goddess of May,
With her flow’rets bespangles the green.