  Sweet bird! how gladly thy cerulean wing Opens o'er all the loveliness of spring; As thy slow shadow, sailing far on high, Tells me the 'time of birds' is drawing nigh. Perchance the down of that pure azure breast On trees of Italy was lately prest; Or mid the ivy of the crumbled fane, Thy nest was sheltered from the sparkling rain: Till to thy heart a whisper, as from home, Told thee of melting snows, and bade thee 'come!' G. H. |
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