MUSIC OF THE GROVE. 239 



Our poet of nature then notices the following 

 birds 



The black-bird whistles 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 

 Innum'rous songsters, in the fresh'ning shade 

 Of new-sprung leaves, their modulations mix 

 Mellifluous. 



He then adds 



The stock-dove breathes 

 A melancholy murmur through the whole. 



The following lines, by Mr. Roscoe, have al- 

 ways struck me as particularly pleasing. 



I love to see at early morn, 



The squirrel sit before my door, 

 There crack his nuts, and hide his shells, 



And leap away to seek for more. 



I love in hedge-row paths, to see 

 The linnets hop from spray to spray ; 



Or mark, at evening's balmy close, 

 The red-breast hop across my way. 



For sure, when nature's free-born train 

 Approach, with song and gambol here, 



Some secret impulse bids them feel 

 The foot-steps of a friend are near. 



Charlotte Smith's ode to Spring may not be 

 generally known ; 



Again the wood, and long withdrawing vale, 

 In many a tint of tender green are drest, 



