On Hearing a Bird Sing, December, 1826
Cease, little warbler, cease thy lay,
For summer, with her sunny day,
Far to the south has fled away;
And autumn’s chilly finger
Has touch’d the leaf on ev’ry tree,—
And blighted everything we see;
Then, warbler, do not linger.
Fly where groves of citron bloom,
And orange orchards shed perfume,
And birds of ev’ry varied plume
With music charm thee:
Fly, little warbler, quickly fly,
Far, far away to southern sky,
Where nought can harm thee.
For, oh, it is no careless voice—
That bids thee fly and seek for joys,
And shun the rushing whirlwind’s noise,
That soon will pass before thee.
But one, whose bosom knows full well,
The heartless scene, the winter spell,
That soon will hover o’er thee.