Then where figs and olives grow,
Mules plod surely on and slow;
Steering thus for many a day,
Southward still our course away,
Swallow, I would fly with thee.
Past Gibraltar's rocky steep,
Dashing o'er the foaming deep;
Then our roving journey o'er,
On the sultry Afric's shore,
Swallow, I would rest with thee.
But when spring's soft gales shall play
Once more o'er our trackless way,
Round and round, in sportive ring,
Joyously on home-bound wing,
Swallow, I would fly with thee.
53. Morning, Noon, and Evening.
Morning.—First Child's Song.
Now the sun shines o'er the hill,
Now the morning breaketh clear,
Chanticleer with clarion shrill
Waketh all the farm-yard near.
Swiftly from the mountain's brow,
Shadows nursed by night retire,
And the peeping sunbeam now
Paints with gold the village-spire.
From the low-roof'd cottage ridge
See the chatt'ring swallow spring;
Darting through the one-arch'd bridge,
