Bird of the gentle wing,
Songster of air,
Home, from thy wandering,
Dost thou repair?
Art thou deserted then,
Wilder'd and lone?
Come to my breast again,
Beautiful one.
Here in the rosy beds
Hover anew;
Eating the garden seeds,
Sipping the dew:
Then in my bower
The fragrance inhale
Of each lovely flower
That waves in the gale.
When the bright morning star,
Rising on high,
Day's early harbinger,
Shines in the sky,
Then shall thy numbers,
So lively and gay,
Rouse me from slumbers,
To welcome the day.
When the still evening comes,
Tranquil and clear;
When the dull beetle roams,
Drumming the air;
Then, on the willow-trees
Shading the door,
Sing me thy melodies
Over once more.
Thus shall the moments fly
Sweetly along,
Tuned to thy minstrelsy,
Cheered by thy song;
Till as the light declines
Far in the west,
Thou, 'mid the trellis'd vines,
Hush thee to rest.