Make the echoing vallies 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 æther afloat,
Each morn, at the usher of day,
Attunes his wild-warbling throat,
And sings his melodious lay.
Yon bank lately cover’d with snow,