THE SPRING.

Now the gay feather'd train, in each bush, Court their mates, and love's melody sing— The blackbird, the linnet, and thrush, Make the echoing valleys to ring. The bird with the crimson-dy'd breast, From the hamlet has made his remove, To join his love-song with the rest, And woo his fond mate in the grove. The lark, high in ether afloat, Each morn, as he ushers the day, Attunes his wild-warbling throat, And sings his melodious lay. Yon bank lately cover'd with snow, Now smiles in the spring's bloomy pride; And the sweet-scented primroses grow Near the streamlet's sweet gurgling tide. To the banks of the Tyne we'll away, And view the enrapturing scene, While Flora, the goddess of May, With her flow'rets bespangles the green.