Its highest warbling notes of praise,
For all these blessings given:--
Ere Sol emerges from behind
The eastern hills, the lark we find
Soars, as it were on wings of wind,
With grateful notes to heaven.

A thousand others catch the strains,
Each bush and tree a tongue contains,
That offers up its praises.
From morn till the meridian day,
From noon till Sol has sunk away,
One ceaseless song, one grateful lay,
Each feather'd songster raises.

And when Night's grim and sable band,
Spreads her dim curtains o'er the land,
And all our prospect closes;
Then Philomela, queen of song,
The sweetest of the feather'd throng,
Takes up the theme the whole night long,
While nature all reposes.

Then surely I, the humblest bird,
That e'er among the groves was heard,
Should aid the thankful chorus;
With _chirping note_ I'll join the sound,
For not _a Sparrow_, 'twill be found,
Without HIS will falls to the ground,
Who high above reigns o'er us.