Kindred of thine own vocalizing race,
Yet of surpassing skill and strength of flow—
Illimitably varied—where we trace
The wondrous spell of mystery, we seek to know.
Gay, spry deceiver, from thy covert nigh,
Methinks I hear the myriad of thy clime
Pouring sweet incense through the southern sky,
In the free rapture of each gift divine;
Yet all successive—one continuous swell
Of silvery softness from the fount of love;