Classic Poem

Thou little lost one! victim of the storm!
Thy tired wings bend hither — rest thee here!
Famine hath prey'd upon thy beauteous form.
And thou art wet with ocean's briny tear.

Why didst thou leave yon verdant Isle afar,
Amid whose bowers thy warbling days were past?
Why didst thou tempt the elemental jar,
And strain thy pinions 'gainst the northern blast?

No needle told thee where to guide thy flight;
No sheltering tree was on the heaving main:
But onward driven through the murky night,
To rest thee, or return, thou strov'st in vain!

But rest thee here, thou weary wander, rest!
Our bark shall bear thee to a clime as fair;
Again thy song shall speak the blythsome breast.
As high thou cleavest through the morning air.

Ah no! — too long the tempest's chilly breath
Hath borne thee on mid ocean's angry roar;
Famine, hath closed thy little eyes in death —
Thy form is cold — thy minstrelsy is o'er!