THE WANDERER

As Southward bound to Indian isles

O'er lonely seas he held his way,

A songster of the feather'd kind

Approach'd, with golden plumage gay:

By sympathetic feelings led

And grieving for her sad mischance,

Thus Thyrsis to the wanderer said,

As circling in her airy dance.

“Sad pilgrim on a watery waste,

What cruel tempest has compell'd

To leave so far your native grove,

To perish on this liquid field!

Not such a dismal swelling scene

( Dread Neptune's wild unsocial sea )

But crystal brooks and groves of green,

Dear rambling bird, were made for thee.

Ah, why amid some flowery mead

Did you not stay, where late you play'd:

Not thus forsake the cypress grove

That lent its kind protecting shade.

In vain you spread your weary wings

To shun the hideous gulph below;

Our barque can be your only hope —

But man you justly deem your foe.

Now hovering near, you stoop to lodge

Where yonder lofty canvas swells —

Again take wing — refuse our aid,

And rather trust the ruffian gales.

But Nature tires! your toils are vain —

Could you on stronger pinions rise

Than eagles have — for days to come

All you could see are seas and skies.

Again she comes, again she lights,

And casts a pensive look below —

Weak wanderer, trust the traitor, Man,

And take the help that we bestow.”

Down to his side, with circling flight,

She flew, and perch'd, and linger'd there;

But, worn with wandering, droop'd her wing,

And life resign'd in empty air.