James Thomson (1)

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

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

Their only labour was to kill the time;
And labour dire it is, and weary woe,
They read more

Their only labour was to kill the time;
And labour dire it is, and weary woe,
They sit, they loll, turn o'er some idle rhyme,
Then, rising sudden, to the glass they go,
Or saunter forth, with tottering steps and slow.

The Redbreast, sacred to the household gods,
Wisely regardful of the embroiling sky,
In joyless fields and read more

The Redbreast, sacred to the household gods,
Wisely regardful of the embroiling sky,
In joyless fields and thorny thickets leaves
His shivering mates, and pays to trusted Man
His annual visit.

Ah! what avail the largest gifts of Heaven,
When drooping health and spirits go amiss?
How tasteless read more

Ah! what avail the largest gifts of Heaven,
When drooping health and spirits go amiss?
How tasteless then whatever can be given!
Health is the vital principle of bliss,
And exercise of health.

Slow let us trace the matchless vale of Thames;
Fair winding up to where the Muses haunt
read more

Slow let us trace the matchless vale of Thames;
Fair winding up to where the Muses haunt
In Twit'nham bowers, and for their Pope implore.