“There’s not in Ind a lovelier bird;
Broad earth owns not a happier nest;
O God, Thou hast a fountain stirred,
Whose waters never more shall rest!
“This beautiful, mysterious thing,
This seeming visitant from heaven—
This bird with the immortal wing,
To me—to me. Thy hand hath given.
“The pulse first caught its tiny stroke,
The blood its crimson hue, from mine;—