Classic Poem

A SONG.

Tune, Happy Clown .

Come, join with me, ye rural swains,
And wake the reed to cheerful strains,
Since Winter now has fled our plains,
With all his rueful store:
No more the furious, blust'ring sky,
From Greenland's dreary mountains high,
(Where worlds of Ice tumultuous lie)
Extends the mighty roar.

With dark'ning rage o'er yon rude Forth,
No more the chill bleak breathing North,
Grim throws the fleecy tempest forth,
Thick thro' the black'ning sky;
Till o'er each hill and sullen vale,
An universal white prevail,
And deep beneath the snowy veil,
The sad Creation lie.

The hoary Tyrant now has fled,
Young blooming Spring our Fields o'erspread,
Hope, Wealth, and Joy are by her led,
An all-enliv'ning train.
Along yon dale, or daisied Mead,
Soon as young morn uplifts her head,
The Hind yokes in the willing steed,
Blithe whist'ling o'er the Lawn;

The stately grove and thick'ning Wood,
That Winter's furious blasts withstood,
Unfold the verdant leafy brood,
High waving in the air.
While, o'er the Mountain's grassy steep,
Are heard the tender bleating sheep,
Around the wanton lambkins leap,
At once their joy and care.

Amid the Bow'r, with wood bines wove,
Throughout the flower-enamell'd grove,
The humming bees unwearied rove,
Gay bloomy sweets among;
The chearful Birds, of varied hue,
Their sweet meand'ring notes pursue;
High soars the Lark, and lost to view,
Pours forth his grateful song.

The wand'ring brook — the glitt'ring rill,
The Cuckoo's note heard from the hill,
The warb'ling Thrush and Black-bird shrill,
Inspire with rapt'rous glee:
Then join the Choir, each Nymph and Swain,
Thro' ev'ry grove, and flow'ry plain,
'Till hills resound the joyful strain,
Harmonious to each Tree.