O, 'twas a consecrated hour,
When, through that sweet refreshing shower
The morning sunbeams brightly smiled,
And whispered, trust thy Father, child.





TO THE WHIPPOWIL.

Vernal songster, thou art here,
With the flowers thou dost appear;
Yes, sweet little Whippowil,
Thou art singing by the rill;
Where the silver moonbeam plays
Thou dost chant thy hymn of praise;
Thy shrill voice I love to hear,
And I'd have thee warble near.
Come, sweet bird, the moonlight shines
Through the verdant row of pines,
Standing by our cottage door,
Come, where thou hast sang before,
When I heard thy thrilling note
On the twilight breezes float,
Ming'ling with the cheerful song
Of our happy fireside throng.
Loved ones, that to me are dear,
No more tune their voices here;