Of orchard warblers heard on every side;
Its cross-road school-house, wherein still abide
Thy fondest memories,—since there thy gaze
First fell on classic verse; and thou, in praise
Of that, didst find thine own song glorified.
So singing, smite the strings and counterchange
The lucently melodious drippings of
Thy happy harp, from airs of “Tempe Vale,”
To chirp and trill of lowliest flight and range,
In praise of our To-day and home and love—
Thou meadow-lark no less than nightingale.