No cloud-spots dim thy radiant wing,
Dyed in the azure of the sky;
No storm grates in thy melody,
Blithe minstrel of the joyful spring.
The flowers wake from their lethargy,
And listen to thy simple strains;
The brooklet breaks its icy chains,
And joins the cheerful jubilee.
Let music swell thy tiny throat,
While woods bow their young leaves to hear
The song which brings the summer near,
Thou sweet bird of the sky-blue coat.
Behold the trees on vale and hill,
Stretch out their arms so stout and true,
To hold thy nest and eggs of blue,
And yield their berries to thy bill.
Fair violets, like drops of bloom,
Rained from the over-arching skies,
Look up to thee with soft, sweet eyes,
And breathe a prayer of sweet perfume.
Oh! blithe song—blossom on the tree,
Precursor of a happy year,—
The flowers, red, white and blue, are here,
Emblems of love and liberty.