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Rh Now the pine-tree's waving top Gently meets the morning gale, Lambkins now begin to crop Daisies on the dewy vale.

Tell me, sisters, am I wrong? Has not Morn a pretty song?

By the brook the shepherd dines, From the glowing noontide heat Shelter'd by the branching pines Hanging o'er his grassy seat. Cattle court the breezes bland Where the streamlet wanders cool, Or in languid silence stand Midway in the marshy pool.

Languid is the landscape round, Till the fresh descending shower, Grateful to the thirsty ground, Raises ev'ry fainting flower. Now the hill, the hedge, are green, Now the warbler's throat's in tune Blithesome is the verdant scene, Brighten'd by the beams of Noon.

Gentle sisters, what say you? Does not Noon sing sweetly too?

O'er the heath the heifer strays Free, her furrow'd task is done; Now the village windows blaze, Burnish'd by the setting sun. 