Classic Poem

It comes! This strange bird from a distant clime
Has fled with arr'wy speed on flutt'ring wing.
From the sweet south, all sick of revelling,
It wanders hitherward to rest a time,
And taste the hardy flora of the west.
And now, O joy! the urchins hear the mirth
Of its light wings, and crouch unto the earth
In watchful eagerness, contented, blest.
Bird of eternal summers! thou dost wake,
Whene'er thou comest and where'er thou art,
A new-born gladness in my swelling heart.
Go, gentle flutterer, my blessing take!
Less like a bird thou hast appeared to me
Than some sweet fancy in old poësy.