Or where’s the music of the humble thrush,
So well depicted by his able brush
Perch’d on yon twig of nut-brown hazel-bush?
Or where the whisperings of the rustling trees,
As through their branches curl the gentle breeze?—
Or, when ’presented in a wintry storm,
We hear no moaning through the leafless form.
And then again—behold his[198] emerald glade
How breezy-bent it greets the crescent blade,
When, as it were, ten mowers (rosy blithe)