HE Sky-lark, when the dews of morn Hang tremulous on flower and thorn,
And violets round his nest
Their fragrance on the early gale,
To the first sunbeam spreads his wings,
Buoyant with joy, and soars, and sings.
He rests not on the leafy spray,
To warble his exulting lay,
But high above the morning
Mounts in triumphant freedom proud,
And swells, when nearest to the sky,
His notes of sweetest ecstacy.
Thus, my Creator! thus the more My spirit's wing to Thee can soar,
The more she triumphs to
Thy love in all thy works unfold,
And bids her hymns of rapture
Most glad, when rising most to Thee!
