To hear the lark begin his flight, And singing startle the dull Night, From his watch-tower in the skies, Till the dappled dawn doth rise.

And now the herald lark Left his ground-nest, high tow'ring to descry The morn's approach, and greet her with his song.

None but the lark so shrill and clear; Now at heaven's gate she claps her wings, The morn not waking till she sings.

Better than all measures Of delightful sound, Better than all treasures That in books are found, Thy skilled to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!

Lo, here the gentle lark, weary of rest, From his moist cabinet mounts up on high And wakes the morning, from whose silver breast The sun ariseth in his majesty; Who doth the world so gloriously behold That cedar tops and hills seem burnished gold.

It was the lark, the herald of the morn; No nightingale.