Up from dewy grass, while yet ’tis dark—
On trembling pinions, soars the meadow lark;
His brilliant vest like ruddy orange glows;
From slender throat, the liquid music flows.
Dear flute-like warbler of the wood and field,
Before him all his rivals bow and yield!
The ambient air, with fluttering wing he beats;
With song ecstatic, early morn he greets.
High, high he rises; and his peans float,—
While listening Nature revels in his note.
—J. Mayne Baltimore.