The breath of Spring is stirring in the wood,
Whose budding boughs confess the genial gale;
And thrush and blackbird tell their tender tale;
The hawthorn tree, that leafless long has stood,
Shows signs of blossoming; the streamlet's flood
Hath shrunk into its banks, and in each vale
The lowly violet, and the primrose pale,
Have lured the bee to seek his wonted food
Then up! and to your forest haunts repair,
Where Robin Hood once held his revels gay;
Yours is the greensward smooth, and vocal spray;
And I, as on your pilgrimage ye fare,
In all your sylvan luxuries shall share
When I peruse them in your minstrel lay.