BY LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY.
———
Bird of the land! what dost thou here?
Lone wanderer o’er a trackless bound,—
With nought but frowning skies above,
And cold, unfathom’d seas around;
Among the shrouds, with heaving breast
And drooping head, I see thee stand,
And pleased the coarsest sailor climbs,
To grasp thee in his roughen’d hand.