son written on the author's birthday,

on hearing a thrush sing in his morning walk.

sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough,

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

see aged winter, 'mid his surly reign,

at thy blythe carol, clears his furrowed brow.

so in lone poverty's dominion drear,

sits meek content with light, unanxious heart;

weles the rapid moments, bids them part,