The lark, he is up, on his heavenward flight,
And the leaves are all gemm’d with diamonds bright;
The hills are all bathed in purple and gold,
And the bleating of flocks is heard from the fold.
Go forth! go forth! for the spring-time is come,
And makes in the North his bright sunny home;
The sky is his banner—the hills his throne—
Where in sunshine robed, he sits all alone;
In the depths of the woods his footsteps are seen
By each moss-covered rock and tell-tale stream;