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Give, half reluctantly, their warmer hues To mingle with the primroses' pale stars. No shade the leafless copses yet afford, Nor hide the mossy labours of the Thrush, That, startled, darts across the narrow path; But quickly re‐assur'd, resumes his talk, Or adds his louder notes to those that rise From yonder tufted brake; where the white buds Of the first thorn are mingled with the leaves Of that which blossoms on the brow of May. Ah! 'twill not be:­­So many years have pass'd, Since, on my native hills, I learn'd to gaze On these delightful landscapes; and those years Have taught me so much sorrow, that my soul Feels not the joy reviving Nature brings; But, in dark retrospect, dejected dwells