Garafilia Mohalby

Sweet bird of Ispara! who fledFrom tyrants o'er the tossing sea,And on the winds of freedom shedThy wildly classic melody,Love at thy tender warbling woke,A foreign land was home to thee,And stranger accents fondly spokeThe welcome of paternity.

Why was thy tarrying here so brief,Thou sheltered in affection's breast?Here were no woes to wake thy grief,No dangers to disturb thy rest:—Ah! thou hadst heard of that blest climeWhere everlasting glories beam,—Perchance its pageantry sublimeHad burst upon thy raptured dream.

Thy bright wing spread. Should aught detainThe prisoner in a cage of clay,When echoing from the heavenly plainCongenial tones forbid delay?No.—Where no archer's shaft can fly,No winter check the tuneful sphere,Rise wanderer to thy native sky,And warble in a Saviour's ear.