Sonnet LXI (ILL-omen'd bird! whose cries portentous float…)

ILL-omen'd bird! whose cries portentous float O'er yon savannah with the mournful wind; While, as the Indian hears your piercing note, Dark dread of future evil fills his mind; Wherefore with early lamentation break The dear delusive visions of repose? Why from so short felicity awake My wounded senses to substantial woes? O'er my sick soul thus rous'd from transient rest, Pale Superstition sheds her influence drear, And to my shuddering fancy would suggest Thou com'st to speak of every woe I fear, Ah! Reason little o'er the soul prevails, When, from ideal ill, the enfeebled spirit fails!