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.
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