James Thomson (1)

Linnets . . . sit
On the dead tree, a dull despondent flock.

Linnets . . . sit
On the dead tree, a dull despondent flock.

So stands the statue that enchants the world,
So bending tries to veil the matchless boast,
The read more

So stands the statue that enchants the world,
So bending tries to veil the matchless boast,
The mingled beauties of exulting Greece.

A lucky chance, that oft decides the fate
Of mighty monarchs.

A lucky chance, that oft decides the fate
Of mighty monarchs.

The glad circle round them yield their souls
To festive mirth, and wit that knows no gall.

The glad circle round them yield their souls
To festive mirth, and wit that knows no gall.

Up springs the lark,
Shrill-voiced, and loud, the messenger of morn;
Ere yet the shadows fly, he read more

Up springs the lark,
Shrill-voiced, and loud, the messenger of morn;
Ere yet the shadows fly, he mounted sings
Amid the dawning clouds, and from their haunts
Calls up the tuneful nations.