The leading crow her colony brings home,
And two by two they seek their leafy dome.
Of all the branches that invite to rest,
Each loves the one that hangs above its nest;
What though of rudest architecture made,
Nor thorns surrounding nor with clay inlaid,
Yet 'tis the spot where infant days began,
That thus attaches both the crow and man!
Now on the green the youth their gambols keep,
Stretching their sinews in the bounding leap;
Others the wrestler's glory would maintain,
Twist the strong nerve and fill the swelling vein;
One youth his pipe blows from the rocky hill,
Seated like Pan above the clacking mill;
Another strikes the violin's cheerful string,
Light to the dance the bounding virgins spring:
'Tis most part nature, yet some art is found
When one — two — three lies heavy on the ground;
For 'tis not airy feet which seem to fly,
Then come descended quivering from the sky,
Nor form that every Grace was known to bend,
Nor foot that every feathered Hour would lend,
Has any merit here; — but feet of sound,
Which tabour-like re-echo on the ground;
Or as the drum a certain sound repeats,
Flutters now low, and then in thunder beats;
From Nature and from Art how wide the sphere
Courts unimprov'd would be what you see here.