(Cardinal Grosbeak)

What wealth is in your ruddy throat,
O bugler of the scarlet coat!
As rollicking and bold as erst,
I hear the silver clarion-burst
With which you herald in the Spring
To tourney with the Winter-king,
Whose gauntlet falls with ringing sound
Of challenge on the frosty ground.

About the breezy battle-plain,
" Right here! Right here! " you cry, amain.
The Spring, a lusty, green-clad knight,
With rondels pricking into fight,
Still bears his flower-wreathed lance in rest
To pierce his foeman's ice-mailed breast;
And when old Winter's jewelled sword
Lies shattered on the trampled sward,
And when you see the foeman fall,
How blithe shall ring your bugle-call
Of " Io! Io! Victory!
Now all the serf-bound streams are free! "