31
The round blue heaven is all thine own,
O free and happy bird!
Wherever laughs a singing rill,
Or points to heaven a verdant hill,
Thy waving wing hath stirred;
For all sweet things, where'er they be,
Are like familiar friends to thee.
O free and happy bird!
Wherever laughs a singing rill,
Or points to heaven a verdant hill,
Thy waving wing hath stirred;
For all sweet things, where'er they be,
Are like familiar friends to thee.
Could I, O living lute of heaven!
But learn to act thy part,
And use the gift so freely given,
That floods my inmost heart;
Each morn, my melting strains of love
Should rise like thine to Him above,
Who made thee what thou art,
And spread abroad each waving tree,
For thee, O little bird! for thee.
But learn to act thy part,
And use the gift so freely given,
That floods my inmost heart;
Each morn, my melting strains of love
Should rise like thine to Him above,
Who made thee what thou art,
And spread abroad each waving tree,
For thee, O little bird! for thee.
And shall the poet envy thee,
Bird of the quivering wing,
Whose soul immortal, swift, and free,
Should ever soar and sing?
Predestined for a loftier flight,
The spirit, filled with heavenly light,
From this cold earth shall spring,
And soar where thou canst never roam,
Bird of the blue and breezy dome!
Bird of the quivering wing,
Whose soul immortal, swift, and free,
Should ever soar and sing?
Predestined for a loftier flight,
The spirit, filled with heavenly light,
From this cold earth shall spring,
And soar where thou canst never roam,
Bird of the blue and breezy dome!
O! if our hearts were never stirred,
By harsher sounds than these—
By harsher sounds than these—
