’Mid the leafless boughs of your native wood;
And here will ye carol your songs no more,
Till the reign of the winter-king is o’er;
Till Spring, in new beauty, comes dancing on,
And ascends flower-crowned to her vernal throne.
But your voices shall gladden the fairy bowers
Of the genial South, through these winter hours,
Where your golden wings may unfettered rove
Through the flowery dell, and the orange grove;
Or bathe in the spray of those crystal streams,