The Attic warbler pours her throat, Responsive to the cuckoo's note, The untaught harmony of spring.
To contemplation's sober eye,Such is the race of man;And they that creep, and they that fly,Shall end where they began,Alike the busy and the gay,But flutter through life's little day.
From Helicon's harmonious springs A thousand rills their mazy progress take.
On some fond breast the parting soul relies,/ Some pious drops the closing eye requires; / E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, / E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
The meanest flowret of the vale, / The simplest note that swells the gale, / The common sun, the air, and skies, / To him are opening paradise.