Thus heard the language of enchanting Spring:--

'Come to thy native groves and fruitful fields!
Thou know'st the fragrance that the wild-flow'r yields;
Inhale the Breeze that bends the purple bud,
And plays along the margin of the Wood.
I've cloth'd them all; the very Woods where thou
In infancy learn'd'st praise from every bough.
Would'st thou behold again the vernal day?
My reign is short;--this instant come away:
Ere Philomel shall silent meet the morn;
She hails the green, but not the rip'ning corn.
Come, ere the pastures lose their yellow flow'rs:
Come now; with heart as jocund as the hours.'

Who could resist the call?--that, Giles had done,
Nor heard the Birds, nor seen the rising Sun;
Had not Benevolence, with cheering ray,
And Greatness stoop'd, indulgent to display
Praise which does surely not to Giles belong,
But to the objects that inspir'd his song.
Immediate pleasure from those praises flow'd:
Remoter bliss within his bosom glow'd!
Now tasted all:--for I have heard and seen
The long-remember'd voice, the church, the green;--
And oft by Friendship's gentle hand been led
Where many an hospitable board was spread.
These would I name,... but each, and all can feel
What the full heart would willingly reveal:
Nor needs be told; that at each season's birth,