TO THE LARK.

How sweet in May to trace the flow'ry lawn,
When full--blown blossoms deck the spangl'd thorn,
When, soaring from thy nest at early dawn,
Thy sprightly matin hails the blushing morn!
To hear thee welcome forth the new--born day
I love to range the dewy meads among.
How can the sluggard doze his time away,
Unheedful of thy early dulcet song!
Say, whither dost thou wing thy feeble flight,
When hoary Winter robes the fields in snow?
Poor bird!--yet are thy little cares but light
Compar'd with his by Poverty kept low;
For, ah! no change of season cheers the sight,
When weary life seems but a vale of woe.