Lament

They have gone, all gone, the birds of the air, 
     To the desolate forest, to seek their retreat;
Or have flown to the land of the sunny South, where
     Perpetual summer the warblers shall greet,
To pour their soft notes 'mid the dark boughs that wave 
In the breezes which sigh o'er the land of the slave.

They have gone, all gone, where sunlight and blooming 
     In radiance and beauty encircle the land;
While stern-hearted Winter, his sceptre's resuming,
     O'er all our blue hills, with an icy-cold hand;
And the tempest clouds gather, all o'er the dark sky, 
And the bleak northern breezes go hurrying by.

They have gone, all gone, and the music is hushed, 
     Which oft rose so grateful in moments of sadness;
Until from the full soul, in sympathy, gushed
     The joyful response to their hymnings of gladness :
And silent are all things, o'er mountains and leas,
Save the rush of the stream and the moan of the breeze.

They have gone, all gone, and the woodlands shall ring
     At morning and evening, no more with their praises;
Till over our valleys, reconquering Spring
     Shall bid her green banner to float on our breezes;.
And free, the bright streamlet shall glide from the glen, 
And the whole face of Nature be blooming again.

Oh! then they will come and renew their glad song,
     'Mid the branches where first their young pinions were spread;
And Echo, awakened, the notes shall prolong, 
     Where now every voice, every motion is dead; 
Till from tree-top and rock, and the green grassy sod, 
United thanksgivings ascend unto God.

Thus, though dark clouds of sorrow shall over us fly, 
     And joys, like the birds of the autumn, depart;
Yet Hope shall rekindle the sun in our sky, 
     And welcome them back to their home in the heart;
Like birds to their own native woodland returning,
When the sun in the strength of his glory is burning.