There is joy where the song of the lark is heard,
With the dancing of waters through copse and dell,
And the bee’s low tune in the fox-glove’s bell.
Thou hast done well: oh! the seas are lone,
And the voice they send up hath a mournful tone;
A mingling of dirges and wild farewells,
Fitfully breathed through its anthem swells.
The proud bird rose as the words were said—
The rush of his pinion swept o’er my head,
And the glance of his eye, in its bright disdain,