WHIDAH-BIRD. 



Where others sit in merry mood, 



Dost thou alone with drooping plume 



And fluttering wing, in sorrow brood, 

 And wail so deep thy settled doom? 



Poor widowed thing! I pity thee 



Thus early mate to misery. 



But now thy sylvan song rings out 



Above the voice of every mate, 

 And floats its mellow tones about 



In mock'ry of their meaner state; 

 As if within thy downy breast, 

 That fount of grief had sunk to rest. 

 But lower, sadder now it grows, 



As though thy grief no smiles could cheer, 

 And solemnly thy cadence flows 



With wailing tone upon mine ear. 

 And thou dost mourn as one would mourn, 

 Whom grief had made the most forlorn. 



Yet 'tis but seeming, lovely one! 



Thy mate is seated by thy side, 

 And what we deem is grief alone, 



Is but the strain of hope and pride. 

 Like to the Dove's, thy strains of bliss 

 And love and joy and happiness 

 Seem ever sad and ever low, 



When thou art happiest of heart, 



