Sweet bird, that sing'st away the early hours br Of winters past or coming, void of care, br Well pleased with delights which present are, br (Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers) br To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers br Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare, br And what dear gifts on thee He did not spare: br A stain to human sense in sin that lours, br What soul can be so sick which by thy songs br (Attired in sweetness) sweetly is not driven br Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and wrongs, br And lift a reverend eye and thought to heaven? br Sweet artless songster, thou my mind dost raise br To airs of spheres, yes, and to angels' lays.