Page:The Seasons - Thomson (1791).djvu/83

 Dry sprigs of trees, in artful fabric laid, And bound with clay together. Now 'tis nought But restless hurry thro' the busy air, Beat by unnumber'd wings. The swallow sweeps The slimy pool, to build his hanging house Intent. And often, from the careless back Of herds and flocks, a thousand tugging bills Pluck hair, and wool; and oft, when unobserv'd, Steal from the barn a straw: till soft and warm, Clean, and compleat, their habitation grows.

thus the patient dam assiduous fits, Not to be tempted from her tender task, Or by sharp hunger, or by smooth delight, Tho' the whole loosen'd Spring around her blows, Her sympathizing lover takes his stand High on th' opponent bank, and ceaseless sings The tedious time away; or else supplies Her place a moment, while she sudden flits To pick the scanty meal. Th* appointed time With pious toil fulfill'd, the callow young, Warm'd and expanded into perfect life, Their brittle bondage break, and come to light, A helpless family, demanding food With constant clamour. O what passions then, What melting sentiments of kindly care, On the new parents seize! away they fly Affectionate, and undesiring bear The most delicious morsel to their young; Which equally distributed, again The search begins. Even so a gentle pair, By fortune sunk, but form'd of generous mold, And charm'd with cares beyond the vulgar breast, In some lone cott amid the distant woods, Rh