Here freely hop from spray to spray,
And weave the mossy nest;
Here rove and sing the live-long day,
At night here sweetly rest.
Amid this cool transparent rill,
That trickles down the glade,
Here bathe your plumes, here drink your fill,
And revel in the shade.
Hither the vocal thrush repairs,
Secure the linnet sings;
The goldfinch dreads no slimy snares,
To clog her painted wings.
Sweet nightingale! oh, quit thy haunt,
Yon distant woods among,
And round my friendly grotto chant
Thy sadly pleasing song.
Nor let the harmless redbreast fear,
Domestic bird, to come
And seek a safe asylum here,
With one that loves his home.
My trees for you, ye artless tribe,
Shall store of fruit preserve;
Oh, let me thus your friendship bribe,
Come feed without reserve.
For you these cherries I protect,
To you these plums belong;
Sweet is the fruit that you have peck'd,
But sweeter far your song.
