From the fragrant wild flowers that blow on thy border,
The playful Zephyrus oft steals an embrace,
And curling thy surface in beauteous order,
The willows bend forward to kiss thy clear face.
Flow on, lovely Tyne, &c.
One favour I crave—O kind fortune befriend me!
When downhill I totter, in Nature's decline—
A competent income—if this thou wilt send me,
I'll dwindle out life on the banks of the Tyne.
Flow on, lovely Tyne, &c.
THE SPRING.
By the Same.—Written early in May, 1809.
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.