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The song of the wild bird is on the wind,
The hum of the wild bee, the music wild
Of waves upon the bank,
Of leaves upon the bough.

But all is song and beauty in the land,
Beneath her skies of June; then journey on,
A thousand scenes like this
Will greet you ere the eve.

Ye linger yet—ye see not, hear not now,
The sunny smile, the music of to-day,
Your thoughts are wandering up,
Far up the stream of time;

And boyhood’s lore and fireside-listened tales
Are rushing on your memories, as ye breathe
That valley’s storied name,
Field of the grounded arms.

Strangers no more, a kindred “pride of place,”
Pride in the gift of country and of name,
Speaks in your eye and step—
Ye tread your native land.

And your high thoughts are on her glory’s day,
The solemn sabbath of the week of battle,
Whose tempests bowed to earth
Her foeman’s banner here.