What joyous notes are those, so soft, so sweet,
That unexpected, strike my charmed ear! 
They are the Robin’s song!  This genial morn
Deceives the feathered tribe:  for yet the sun
In Pisces holds his course; nor yet has Spring
Advanc’d one legal claim; but though oblique
So mild, so warm, descend his cheering rays,
Impris’ning winter seems subdued.  No dread
Of change retards their wing; but off they soar
Triumphing in the fancied dawn of Spring. 
  Advent’rous birds, and rash! ye little think,
Though lilacs bud, and early willows burst. 
How soon the blasts of March—­the snowy sleets,
May turn your hasty flight, to seek again
Your wonted warm abodes.  Thus prone is youth,
Thus easily allured, to put his trust
In fair appearance; and with hope elate,
And naught suspecting, thus he sallies forth,
To earn experience in the storms of life! 
  But why thus chide—­why not with gratitude
Receive and cherish ev’ry gleam of joy? 
For many an hour can witness, that not oft,
My solitude is cheered by feelings such,
So blithe—­so pleasurable as thy song
Sweet Robin, gives.  Yet on thy graceful banks,
Majestic Susquehanna—­joy might dwell! 
For whether bounteous Summer sport her stores,
Or niggard Winter bind them—­still the forms
Most grand, most elegant, that Nature wears
Beneath Columbia’s skies, are here combin’d. 
  The wide extended landscape glows with more
Than common beauty.  Hills rise on hills—­
An amphitheater, whose lofty top,
The spreading oak, or stately poplar crowns—­
Whose ever-varying sides present such scenes
Smooth or precipitous—­harmonious still—­
Mild or sublime,—­as wake the poet’s lay;
Nor aught is wanting to delight the sense;
The gifts of Ceres, or Diana’s shades. 
The eye enraptur’d roves o’er woods and dells,
Or dwells complacent on the numerous signs
Of cultivated life.  The laborer’s decent cot,
Marks the clear spring, or bubbling rill. 
The lowlier hut hard by the river’s edge,
The boat, the seine suspended, tell the place
Where in his season hardy fishers toil. 
More elevated on the grassy slope,
The farmer’s mansion rises mid his trees;
Thence, o’er his fields the master’s watchful eye
Surveys the whole.  He sees his flocks, his herds
Excluded from the grain-built cone; all else,
While rigid winter reigns, their free domain! 
Range through the pastures, crop the tender root,
Or climbing heights abrupt, search careful out,
The welcome herb,—­now prematurely sprung
Through half-thawed earth.  Beside him spreading elms,
His friendly barrier from th’ invading north,
Contrast their shields defensive with the willow
Whose flexile drapery sweeps his rustic lawn. 
Before him lie his vegetable stores,
His garden, orchards, meadows—­all his hopes—­
Now bound in icy chains:  but ripening suns