Alabama, ip ij. 65 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY 



THE Attic warbler pours her throat 

 Responsive to the cuckoo's note, 

 The untaught harmony of Spring: 

 While, whispering pleasure as they fly, 

 Cool Zephyrs thro' the clear blue sky 

 Their gather'd fragrance fling. 



Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch 



A broader, browner shade, 

 Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech 



O'er canopies the glade, 

 Beside some water's rushy brink 

 With me the Muse shall sit, and think 

 (At ease reclined in rustic state) 

 How vain the ardor of the crowd, 

 How low, how little are the proud, 



How indigent the great ! 



Still is the toiling hand of Care; 



The panting herds repose: 

 Yet hark, how thro' the peopled air 



The busy murmur glows ! 

 The insect-youth are on the wing, 

 Eager to taste the honeyed Spring 

 And float amid the liquid noon : 

 Some lightly o'er the current skim, 

 Some show their gayly-gilded trim 



Quick-glancing to the sun. 



3BB 



