Back to the flood-tossed crew no leaf she bore:
So through the past man’s tempest-driven mind,
Sent fancy forth some resting-place to find;
O’er bush, tree, hill, she winged her trackless way,
Nor foothold found her weary flight to stay;
Back o’er the sea on terror-haunted air,
She flew, to tell the tidings of despair;
Again she flies for fairer forms to seek,
And lo! the olive borne upon her beak!
Hear her glad news,—she rested on the tomb,