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Then welcome to our groves once more,
Thou token sure that winter’s o’er.

Sweet Bird! the grateful muse shall pay
Her homage and her love to thee;
To thee attune her earliest lay,
And wake the lyre’s soft harmony;
While each exulting mind
Shall join, accordant with her lays,
And every hand unite to raise
A wreath of honorary bays,
Around thy plumes to bind;
To crown thee first of all the train
Whose sportive warblings glad the plain.

Ye wintry clouds! that o’er the heart
A shade of sable honor threw!
Ye shadowy sorrows! hence! depart—
Ye heart-corroding thoughts—adieu!
With all your gloomy train,
On wings of stormy tempests fly
To Zembla’s coasts or Scythia’s sky;
Then deep in trackless deserts lie,
And ne’er return again.
Let life a cheerful prospect wear,
Uncurtained by thy clouds’ despair!

The mournful grove, in weeds forlorn,
Bewails her festive summer bower: