# Pleasant Memories of Pleasant Lands 1842/Land-bird at Sea

LAND-BIRD AT SEA.
Bird of the land! what dost thou here?
 Lone wanderer o'er a trackless bound,
With nought but frowning skies above,
 And wild, unfathomed seas around.
Amid the shrouds, with panting breast
 And drooping head, I see thee stand,
While pleased the hardy sailor climbs
 To clasp thee in his roughened hand.
Say, didst thou follow, league on league,
 Our pointed mast, thine only guide,
When but a fleeting speck it seemed
 On the broad bosom of the tide?
Amid Newfoundland's misty bank
 Hadst thou a nest, and nurslings fair?
Or cam'st thou from New-England's vales?
 Speak! speak! what tidings dost thou bear?
What news from native land and home,
 Light carrier o'er the threatening tide?
Hast thou no folded scroll of love
 Pressed closely to thy panting side?
A bird of genius art thou? say!
 With impulse high thy spirit stirred,
Some region unexplored to gain,
 And soar above the common herd?
Burns in thy breast some kindling spark,
 Like that which fired the glowing mind
Of the adventurous Genoese,
 An undiscovered world to find?
Whate'er thou art, how sad thy fate,
 With wasted strength the goal to spy,
Cling feebly to the flapping sail,
 And at a stranger's feet to die.
For thee the widowed mate shall gaze
 From leafy chamber curtained fair,
And wailing lays at evening's close
 Lament thy loss in deep despair.
Even thus, o'er life's unresting tide,
 Chilled by the billow's beating spray,
Some adventitious prize to gain,
 Ambition's votaries urge their way;
Some eyrie on the Alpine cliff,
 Some proud Mont-Blanc they fain would climb,
Snatch wreaths of laurel steeped in gore,
 Or win from Fame a strain sublime.
They lose of home the heartfelt joys,
 The charm of seasons as they roll,
And stake amid their blinding course
 The priceless birthright of the soul.
Years fleet, and still they struggle on,
 Their dim eye rolls with fading fire,
Perchance the long-sought treasure grasp,
 And in the victory expire.
At Sea.
Saturday, August 8th, 1840.
The monotony of a sea-voyage rendered the arrival of a poor, little, trembling land-bird among our shrouds a circumstance of interest. To the children on board it communicated a wild delight, though they grieved to see it so soon fold its wings and die. It reached us, when our ship had been eight days out, in latitude 43° 33", longitude 45° 30", being distant from New York 1340 miles, and from the nearest point of Newfoundland 500, so that the little messenger must have had a weary flight, ere it found a resting place.
It reminded us of the birds that came out to meet ​our ancestors, nearly two centuries since, when, after a tedious voyage of seventy days, they approached the harbor of Salem. "There came forth to us, into our ship," said Governor Winthrop, "a wild pigeon and another small land-bird, likewise a smell from the shore, like unto the smell of a garden." The young voyagers crumbled their stale bread to lure these aerial visitants, watching with exclamations of joy the irized hues of the pigeon's glossy neck, as it turned its head from side to side, timidly regarding them. When long confined to the sight of sea and wave, any vestige of land is most cheering. How must Columbus and his disheartened people have hailed the floating weeds, which assured them that the world of their vision was indeed one of reality. Such heralds can never be correctly estimated by those who dwell quietly at home; but on the tossing deep we realize the truth of the words of the poet;—
"The floating weeds and birds that meet
 The wanderers back at sea,
And tell that fresh and new and sweet
 A world is on their lea,
Are like the hints of that high clime,
Toward which we steer o'er waves of time."