And the crow just taking flight,
Grave and sooty.

On our floral search intent,
Still away, away we went,--
Up and down the rugged bent,--
Through the wicket,--
Where the rock with water drops,--
Through the bushes and the copse,--
Where the greenwood pathway stops
In the thicket.

We heard the fountain gush,
And the singing of the thrush;
And we saw the squirrel's brush
In the hedges,
As along his back 't was thrown,
Like a glory of his own.
While the sun behind it, shone
Through its edges.

All the world appeared so fair,
And so fresh and free the air,--
Oh! it seemed that all the care
In creation
Belonged to God alone;
And that none beneath his throne,
Need to murmur or to groan
At his station.