LAMBS AT PLAY. There panting stop: yet scarcely can refrain, Their little limbs increasing efforts try, Ah, fallen rose! sad emblem of their doom; BLOOMFIELD. THE GREEN LINNET. ENEATH these fruit-tree boughs, that shed In this sequester'd nook, how sweet To sit upon my orchard-seat, And birds and flowers once more to greet, My last year's friends together! One have I mark'd, the happiest guest In all this covert of the blest: Hail to thee, far above the rest In joy of voice and pinion; Dost lead the revels of the May, While birds, and butterflies, and flowers, Make all one band of paramours, Thou, ranging up and down the bowers, Art sole in thy employment; A life, a presence like the air, Scattering thy gladness without care, Too blest with any one to pair, Thyself thy own enjoyment. THE GREEN LINNET. Upon yon tuft of hazel trees, Yet seeming still to hover; My sight he dazzles, half deceives, As if by that exulting strain He mock'd and treated with disdain WORDSWORTH. |