Perch'd on the cedar's topmost bough, And gay with gilded wings, Perchance the patron of his vow, Some artless linnet sings.

Hail to thee, far above the rest In joy of voice and pinion! Thou, linnet! in thy green array, Presiding spirit here to-day, Dost lead the revels of the May; And this is thy dominion.

Linnets . . . sit On the dead tree, a dull despondent flock.

I do sing because I must, And pipe but as the linnets sing.

Is it for thee the linnet pours his throat? Loves of his own, and raptures swell the note.

There is nothing more universally commended than a fine day; the reason is that people can commend it without envy.