Where coolness gushes in the waving branch
Or o'er the flowers streams the fountain, rests,
Inhales the breadth of prime
The gentle airs of eve.
His straw-decked thatch, where doves bask in the sun,
And play, and hop, invites to sweeter rest
Than golden halls of state
Or beds of down afford.
To him the plumy people
Chatter and whistle on his
And from his quiet hand
Peck crumbs or peas or grains

His _Winter Song_ runs:

Summer joys are o'er,
Flow'rets bloom no more;
Wintry joys are sweeping,
Through the snow-drifts peeping;
Cheerful evergreen
Rarely now is seen.

No more plumèd throng
Charms the woods with song;
Ice-bound trees are glittering,
Merry snow-birds twittering,
Fondly strive to cheer
Scenes so cold and drear.

Winter, still I see