WILD birds, wild birds; ye rejoice mine eye,
For ye tell, that the rose-wreathed Spring is nigh;
And your warblings fall, on my charmed ear,
Like the wafted notes, of some happier sphere,
Where all, beneath, around, above,
Is breathing of peace, and joy, and love.
Wild birds! ye come in the year's young prime,
That "greenest spot," on the waste of time,
And when, in the bloom of our summer bowers,
Ye have sported away, the sunny hours;
It is but to lift the light wing, and away,
To a milder clime, and a brighter day.
So from the clouds of earth, and time,
Be it ours, to pass to that better clime,
Where night never gathers, and storms never blight,
For God, and the Lamb, are its joy and light.
Who, from that bosom of boundless bliss,
Would return, wild birds! to a world like this?