158 AI.E:xANDE:r WII.SON: POEn^-NATURAI.IST 



The ploughman is pleased when he gleans in his train, 



Now searching the furrows, now mounting to cheer 

 him; 

 The gard'ner delights in his sweet simple strain, 



And leans on his spade to survey and to hear him; 

 The slow-ling'ring schoolboys forget they'll be chid. 



While gazing intent as he warbles before 'em, 

 In mantle of sky-bue, and bosom so red, 



That each little loiterer seems to adore him. 



When all the gay scenes of the summer are o'er. 



And autumn slow enters so silent and sallow. 

 And millions of warblers, that charm'd us before, 



Have fled in the train of the sun-seeking swallow. 

 The blue-bird, forsaken, yet true to his home, 



Still lingers, and looks for a milder to-morrow; 

 Till forc'd by the horrors of winter to roam. 



He sings his adieu in a lone note of sorrow. 



While Spring's lovely season, serene, dewy, warm. 



The green face of earth and the pure blue of heaven. 

 Or Love's native music, have influence to charm. 



Or Sympathy's glow to our feelings are given — 

 Still dear to each bosom the blue-bird shall be ; 



His voice, like the thrilling of hope, is a treasure ; 

 For, thro' bleakest storms, if a calm he but see, 



He comes to remind us of sunshine and pleasure. 



