My bird has flown, my gentle bird!

Four autumn suns gone by,

She left, to cheer our loneliness,

Her own dear native sky.

With love, the precious treasure came;

I drew her to my breast,

Gazed in her heaven-lit eye of blue,

And felt—how richly blest!

She grew in beauty day by day,

More dear each passing hour,

Until we came to feel our bird

Would never leave our bower.

The rich, wild sweetness of her song,

Rung on the morning air,

And mildly, on the evening breeze,

It told the hour of prayer.

We thought when darkness frowned above,

And wint’ry winds went by—

’Twould still be summer in our home,

And sunshine on our sky.

With our own sweet minstrel ever near

No sorrow could invade;

Her song of love would cheer us still,

And bless our woodland shade.

Now, many a weary day hath passed

Since from my tearful eye

Her untaught pinion cleft the air,

And vanished in the sky.

Why has she gone? Seeks she afar

Some green isle’s shadier bowers?

Some happier nest—serener airs—

And purer love than ours?

Oh not on earth! not here—not here!

Clouds veil our brightest skies,

And summer’s mildest breezes,

Chill our bird of Paradise.

The treasure which we deemed our own

Was briefly lent, not given.

Our Father knew his spotless bird,

And called her home to Heaven.