PO^MS 163 



Deep in the thickest shade, with cadence sweet, 

 Soft as the tones that heaven-bound pilgrims greet, 

 Sings the wood-robin close retir'd from sight, 

 And swells his solo *mid the shades of night. 

 Here sports the mocking-bird with matchless strain. 

 Returning back each warbler's notes again : 

 Now chants a robin, now o'er all the throng, 

 Pours out in strains sublime the thrush's song. 

 Barks like the squirrel, like the cat-bird squalls. 

 Now "Whip-poor-will," and now "Bob White" he 



calls. 

 The lonely red-bird too adorns the scene, 

 In brightest scarlet through the foliage green. 

 With many a warbler more, a vocal throng, 

 That shelter'd here their joyous notes prolong. 

 From the first dawn of dewy morning grey. 

 In sweet confusion till the close of day. 

 Ev'n when still night descends serene and cool. 

 Ten thousand pipes awake from yonder pool; 

 Owls, crickets, tree-frogs, katydids resound. 

 And flashing fire-flies sparkle all around. 

 Such boundless plenty, such abundant stores 

 The rosy hand of nature round us pours, 

 That every living tribe their powers employ. 

 From morn to eve, to testify their joy, 

 And pour from meadow, field, and boughs above. 

 One general song of gratitude and love. 

 Even now, emerging from their prisons deep, 

 Wak'd from their seventeen years of tedious sleep, 

 In countless millions to our wondering eyes 

 The long-remembered locusts glad arise. 

 Burst their enclosing shells, at Nature's call. 

 And join in praise to the great God of aH. 



