Till envy spurred the emulating thrush
To start less wild and scarce inferior songs;
For while of half the year care him bereaves,
To damp the ardor of his speckled breast,
The nightingale to summer’s life belongs,
And naked trees, and winter’s nipping wrongs
Are strangers to her music, and her rest.
Her joys are ever green—her world is wide!
Hark! there she is, as usual; let’s be hush;
For in this black-thorn clump, if rightly guessed,