BLUE-BIRD. 257 



He breathes the native note of praise, 



To the great Source of Good, 

 The trees are vocal with his lays, 



Instinct with gratitude. 



He mounts upon his downy wing, 



He cleaves the ambient air, 

 Inhales the balmy breath of spring, 



And wakes the world to prayer. 







The fertile earth, at Nature's voice, 



Unlock's her precious store, 

 And mount and vale and plain rejoice, 



To greet the genial hour. 



The purling stream, no longer bound 



In winter's icy chain, 

 Sparkles beneath the sunny ray, 



And freely flows again. 



Flows as life flows in infancy, 



Pure, radiant and serene, 

 Through flow'rs and fields and fragrant groves 



That animate the scene. 



Flows on till winter checks its tide, 



And robs it of its bloom, 

 Like death, that in our youthful pride, 



Consigns us to the tomb. 



22* 



