Ah! why did thy rude hand molest
The sacred quiet of my nest?
No more I rise on rapture's wing,
The ditties of my love to sing.
Restore me to the peaceful vale,
To wander with the southern gale;
Restore me to the woodland scene,
Romantic glen, or forest green;
To hail the Heaven's ethereal blue,
To drink the freshness of the dew;
Now, while my artless carols flow,
Let pity in thy bosom glow.
For this, at morn's inspiring hour,
I'll sing in thy luxuriant bow'r:
To thee the breeze of airy sigh
Shall waft my thrilling melody;
Thy soul the cadence wild shall meet,
The song of gratitude is sweet.
And at the pensive close of day,
When landscape-colours fade away,
Ah! then the robin's mellow note,
To thee in dying tone shall float;—
"Now, while my plaintive carols flow,
"Let pity in thy bosom glow;"
And I will consecrate to thee,
The wildest note of liberty.