SONNET
TO
THE
WHITE-BIRD
OF
THE
TROPIC
.
BIRD
of
the
Tropic
!
thou
,
who
lov'st
to
stray
Where
thy
long
pinions
sweep
the
sultry
Line
,
Or
mark'st
the
bounds
which
torrid
beams
confine
By
thy
averted
course
,
that
shuns
the
ray
Oblique
,
enamour'd
of
sublimer
day
:
Oft
on
yon
cliff
thy
folded
plumes
recline
,
And
drop
those
snowy
feathers
Indians
twine
,
To
crown
the
warrior's
brow
with
honours
gay
.
O'er
trackless
oceans
what
impels
thy
wing
?
Does
no
soft
instinct
in
thy
soul
prevail
?
No
sweet
affection
to
thy
bosom
cling
,
And
bid
thee
oft
thy
absent
nest
bewail
?
—
Yet
thou
again
to
that
dear
spot
canst
spring
,
But
I
no
more
my
long-lost
home
shall
hail
!