The spirit of the gentle south-wind calls From his blue throne of air, gleaming like red gold; And hark with shrill pipe musical, their merry course they hold. And where his whispering voice in music falls, God bless them all, those little ones, who, far Beauty is budding there; The bright ones of the valley break Their slumbers, and awake. The waving verdure rolls along the plain, And the wide forest weaves, To welcome back its playful mates again, A canopy of leaves; And from its darkening shadow floats A gush of trembling notes. above this earth, Can make a scoff of its mean joys, and vent a nobler mirth. But soft mine ear upcaught a sound, from yonder wood it came ! The spirit of the dim green glade did breathe his own glad name; Yes, it is he the hermit bird, that, apart from all his kind, |