The sun has touched the mountain’s crest,

The partridge rises from her nest;

And down the hillside tripping fast,

Greets all the flowers as she goes past.

I breakfast on my roof at morn

When to my ear her voice is borne—

When swinging from the mountain side,

She chirps her song in all her pride.

Thy nest is dewed with summer showers;

Basil, narcissus, lotus flowers,

Enamel it, and breathe to thee

Perfumes of immortality.

Soft feathers all thy body deck,

Small is thy beak, and long thy neck.

Thy wings are worked with colours rare,

The dove is not so sweet and fair.

The little partridge flies aloft

Upon the branch, and warbles soft;

He cheers the world, and heals the smart

When seas of blood well in the heart.