Which forever glide free in the sun’s glad beams.
Then away! ere hastens cold winter’s night;
He who watcheth the sparrow, directs your flight:
We envy your freedom, ye songsters fair!
And fain would fly, too, from this piercing air;
But the Power divine, which doth bid you roam,
Binds us, and our joys, to a Northern home.
But, thanks to that Power! from the frosts of Grief—
From the Winter that blighteth Affection’s leaf;
From the chilling blast of Misfortune’s breath,