Ode III: To The Cuckow

O rustic herald of the spring, At length in yonder woody vale Fast by the brook i hear thee sing; And, studious of thy homely tale, Amid the vespers of the grove, Amid the chaunting choir of love, Thy sage responses hail. The time has been when i have frown'd To hear thy voice the woods invade; And while thy solemn accent drown'd Some sweeter poet of the shade, Thus, thought i, thus the sons of care Some constant youth or generous fair With dull advice upbraid. I said, “While Philomela's song “Proclaims the passion of the grove, “It ill beseems a cuckow's tongue “Her charming language to reprove”— Alas, how much a lover's ear Hates all the sober truth to hear, The sober truth of love! When hearts are in each other bless'd, When nought but lofty faith can rule The nymph's and swain's consenting breast, How cuckow-like in Cupid's school, With store of grave prudential saws On fortune's power and custom's laws, Appears each friendly fool! Yet think betimes, ye gentle train Whom love and hope and fancy sway, Who every harsher care disdain, Who by the morning judge the day, Think that, in April's fairest hours, To warbling shades and painted flowers The cuckow joins his lay.