Sweet voices now are heard on every tree,
The breeze, the bird, the murmur of the bee;
And down the cliff, where rocks oppose in vain,
Runs the clear stream in music to the plain.
In noisy groups, far from their southern home,
Now ’round the lofty spire the swallows roam;
The fearless robin builds, with glossy leaves,
Her fragile nest beneath the farmer’s eaves;
Embowered in woods the partridge makes her bed
With silken moss o’er tender osiers spread: