James Dixon (1814–1873)

SWEET Bird! that, hidden by the dark green leaves,

Didst pour thy pleasant song at break of day,

Making glad music round my flower-wreathed eaves,

Why has thy gentle warbling died away?

Come not the zephyrs from the sweet southwest

As freshly to thy leaf-embosomed nest?

Less fragrant are the flowers of summer’s prime?

Or pin’st thou for thy far-off southern clime?

Or is it that thy noisy young have flown,

Leaving their green home in the o’ershadowing tree,

That thus thou mournest desolate and lone,

Where once thy song burst forth so loud and free?

Alas! that summer’s perfumed airs should bring

Sorrow to one like thee, so light of heart and wing!