Page:The Seasons - Thomson (1791).djvu/81

 In gallant thought, to plume the painted wing; And try again the long-forgotten strain, At first faint-warbled. But no sooner grows The soft infusion prevalent, and wide, Than, all alive, at once their joy o'erflows In music unconfin'd. Up-springs the lark, Shrill-voic'd, and loud, the messenger of morn; Ere yet the shadows fly, he mounted sings Amid the dawning clouds, and from their haunts Calls up the tuneful nations. Every copse Deep-tangled, and tree irregular, and bush Bending with dewy moisture, o'er the heads Of the coy quiristers that lodge within, Are prodigal of harmony. The thrush And wood-lark, o'er the kind contending throng Superior heard, run thro' the sweetest length Of notes; when listening Philomela deigns To let them joy, and purposes, in thought Elate, to make her night excel their day. The black-bird whittles from the thorny brake; The mellow bullfinch answers from the grove: Nor are the linnets, o'er the flowering furze Pour'd out profusely, silent. Join'd to these Innumerous songsters, in the freshening shade Of new-sprung leaves, their modulations mix Mellifluous. The jay, the rook, the daw, And each harsh pipe discordant heard alone, Aid the full concert: while the stock-dove breathes A melancholy murmur thro' the whole.

' love creates their melody, and all This waste of music is the voice of love; That even to birds, and beasts, the tender Arts Of pleasing teaches. Hence the glossy kind Rh