Dost thou bear me evil thou croaking bird?
Thy voice of ill omen methinks I heard;
Dost thou prate of evil to come to me,
As thou flappest thy glossy wings in glee?
Hast thou ought of woe in thy dismal shriek,
The herald of ill that my heart may break?
Come hither, dark prophet, and tell to me
Whatever thy mission of ill may be;
My heart is sick with its hope deferred,
'Twill break--'twill break, if thou speak not bird!
The ill that thou bringest can never be
Half so distressing as doubt is to me!
Oh, tell me if still in that favoured clime,
Where fragrance exhales from the juicy lime;
And the orange and lemon together grow;
And the myrtle's bloom is like fallen snow;
And the golden sunsets and blushing morn,
Are draped in such robes as angels adorn?
Oh say, if amid their loveliness be
The hearts and the eyes, which are dear to me;
If e'er in this beautiful world again
We may meet in joy, and be free from pain?
Thou art mute! and the shine of thy sable plume
Is more deeply tinged with prophetic gloom!
Ah, thou art gone! far away--far away!
Thy outspread wings on the wild winds play;
Thou seemest like sorrow to mortals given,
Thy abode upon earth!--thy solace in heav'n!
And thou teachest well! in its darkest night
My heart shall remember thy upward flight!