By the bubbling fount ’mid the greenwood shades,

In the leafy world of the forest glades,

No more the birds, at the blush of morn,

Trill their sweet notes; they are gone—all gone!

Voices of summer, I’ve listed long

For the witching strains of your matin song;

Through the woodland dim, o’er the rustling lawn,

I have sought you oft; but you’re gone—all gone?

No more do you start in your still retreat

At the thundering tramp of the horses’ feet,

Or the wandering note of the bugle horn;

But the woods are mute, for you’re gone—all gone!

’Mid the wild wood’s haunts, through your lonely nests,

The rude winds play, and the snow-wreath rests

In their yielding curve, while in jeering scorn

The cold blast whistles, "Gone—all gone!"

They say that ye sing ’neath a sunnier arch

Of the azure skies, where the seasons’ march

Brings but one endless vernal dawn;

But my heart is sad, for you’re gone—all gone!