Classic Poem

Sweet Bird! I blush to hear thy chiding lays,
That oft my dull ignoble sloth accuse,
When Earth's green bosom, bath'd with wholsome dews,
Smiles to the purple morning's milder rays.
Far better task, to sound my Maker's praise,
Or 'mid fair dales and flow'ry lawns to muse
Harmonious song, than, wrapt in sloth, to lose
The precious prime of Summer's golden days.
Lead me, sweet Bird, to meads of new-blown flow'rs;
To tangled woods, that breathe a rich perfume
From violet blue or faintly-blushing rose:
I can requite thee; when descending snows
Strip the gay forests of their leafy bloom,
Thou on my hearth shalt pass the live-long hours.