Song,
On leaving the Country for the Town.
Ye shrubs, and blooming flow’rs,
All deck’d in richest pride,
I’ll sing amidst your foliage;
In you I can confide.
But yonder tall plantation,
Is not a friend so true,
For there will tell-tale Echo,
Repeat each word anew.
Fair smiling infant nature,
Again salutes the eye,
Each leaf and flower expanding,
And all in beauty vie.
Bud on ye tender blossoms,
In vernal breezes wave,
Some other maid will praise you,
Though I these beauties leave.
Spring once thy scented verdure,
With pleasure I survey’d;
And music of the woodlands
Has made my bosom glad.
No more through flow’ry meadows,
Delighted now I range,
But for scenes not so enticing,
Would all these charms exchange,
Yes, yonder crowded city,
With all its bustling noise,
In place of your mild silence,
Is now become my choice.
O hope! what sweet sensations,
Thy promises do give!
But oft, alas! though winning,
Thy brightest smiles deceive.