THE PURPLE MARTIN'S RETURN, 



O aerial minstrel with harp ever ringing! 

 Thou voice of the sky! We have watched for thee long; 

 But now on this morn when all nature is springing, 

 We catch from the breezes thy jovial song! 



Intently our eyes through the azure are straining; 

 No trace of the singer as yet we descry; 

 But soon, as the volume of music is gaining. 

 We notice a speck in the depths of the sky. 



There, truly, he comes, ever nearer and clearer — 

 Down, down, like a metor from heaven, he falls; 

 And alights on the house, in the garden that's dearer, 

 To him, than the south with its palm shaded halls. 



For he, who has glanced through the bowers of myrtle. 

 And soared o'er the forests of olive and palm. 

 Returns to this land of the pine and the maple. 

 The summer to spend in his northern home. 



And here through the summer, from morn until even, 

 The mate that he loves he will cheer with his lay. — 

 O! welcome, thrice welcome, thou minstrel of heaven, 

 Our land is so lonely when thou art away! 



J. M. L. 



