‘Tis sweet, as the dawn flashes over the lawn,
The old manor-house to see;
To hear the roused rooks, in their leafy nooks,
And the hum of the sportive bee:
‘Tis merry to mark, in the smooth-shaven park,

‘Tis sweet, when the sun, his race being ran,
Kisses the mansion so old :
Warms the mossed wall, lights up the oak ball,
and bathes the trees in cold:
When the deer are at rest, and the rook seeks his nest,
And no sonnd in the calm air swells.
Save the peasant’s low song, as he winds along,
Or the distant village bells.—MICHELL.