To spicy groves where he had won
His plumage of resplendent hue—
His native fruits, and skies, and sun—
He bade adieu.
For these he changed the smoke of turf,
A heathery land and misty sky;
And turn’d on rocks and raging surf
His golden eye.
But, petted, in our climate cold,
He lived and chatter’d many a day;