I.

The small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning, The murmuring streamlet winds clear thro' the vale; The hawthorn trees blow in the dew of the morning, And wild scatter'd cowslips bedeck the green dale: But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair, While the lingering moments are number'd by care? No flow'rs gaily springing, nor birds sweetly singing, Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair.