THE TROPIC BIRD 
Far on the azure plain 
Of the swelling, swaying main, 
Where looms for many a mile 
But a little palmy isle. 
We delight in seeing a ship, 
And follow with skim and skip 
In its furrowed, frothy wake. 
Watching with anxious ache 
For what sailors can afford 
To throw us overboard. 
Where rocks arc loftiest 
We are hatched, with never a nest, 
In some hollow of the stone ; 
And, as tides in turning moan 
Just beneath us hour by hour, 
We sit longing for the power 
To o’ersweep them like our sires, 
Whom far-flying never tires. 
The name of Tropic Bird sounds as if it should 
belong to some glowing feathered being with jewel- 
like breast and plumy tail of many changing hues , 
one, perhaps, that might be seen in deep forests, 
flitting from one gorgeous flower to another, among 
a hundred delicate odours. 
There are, indeed, many radiant birds of this 
sort in the tropics, but the one who really owns the 
name belongs to a race of sea-birds, and follows, in 
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