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Child of the Year! that round dost run Thy pleasant course,—when day's begun As ready to salute the sun

* His muse.

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Amid yon tuft of hazel trees,
That twinkle to the gusty breeze,
Behold him perched in ecstacies,

Yet seeming still to hover ; There! where the flutter of his wings Upon his back and body flings Shadows and sunny glimmerings,

That cover him all over.

* See, in Chaucer and the elder Poets, the honours formerly paid to this flower.

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* Common Pilewort.

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