MOYARRA
I.
In that far isle which, long unknown,
Confesses now Britannia's throne,
The sun who flings his genial ray
O'er every clime from day to day.
Beheld one born to that dark race
Who hail the woods their dwelling place.
The opening buds upon the trees
Were gently waving in the breeze;
The flowerets round, of every hue,
Bent with full drops of morning dew;
The feathered choir to greet the day
Poured forth their merry roundelay;
The robin with his blood-red hue,
The warbler of cerulean blue.
