To the First Birds of Spring

Ye come, ye come, bright warbling things,

And joy is in your song.

Ye bear upon your dewy wings

The spring's first breath along.

 

Ye herald in the happy morn,

That is the birth of flowers;

Ye tell that winter's chills have gone,

Its snows and icy towers.

 

Ye bide the earth in its carpet weave,

In Nature's matchless loom,

The warp for many a grassy leaf,

The wool from flowret's loom.

 

Ye bid the naked branches dress,

In all their proud array,

And all things don their loveliness,

To welcome back the day.

 

Ye bid the icy fetters fall

From many a prisoned rill;

And onward, joyful at your call,

They gambol down the hill.

 

All nature wakes from sleep; the cloud

Shades not the sun's bright rays;

No more the storm-winds, howling loud,

Disturb the zephyr's lay.

 

Pass on, pass on, to other land,

Ye birds of merry note;

Sing there of spring, ye starry band,

From every tuneful throat.

 

And gladden every heart that hears

Your message from above,

Pass on, dry up old winter's tears,

Sweet harbingers of spring.

May 14, 1846. Jeffersonian Republican 6(49): 1.