so written on the author's birthday,

on hearing a thrush sing in his rning walk.

sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough,

sing on, sweet bird, i listen to thy strain,

see aged winter, 'd his surly reign,

at thy blythe carol, clears his furrowed brow.

so in lone poverty's donion drear,

sits ek content with light, unanxious heart;