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The garland beneath her had fallen to dust;
“ Passing away! passing away !”
WONDROUS, majestic bird! whose mighty wing Dwells not with puny warblers of the spring ;
Nor on earth's silent breastPowerful to soar in strength and pride on high,
the azure bosom of the sky, Chooses its place of rest.
Proud nursling of the tempest, where repose
In what far clime of night
Suspend thy tireless flight?
The mountain's frozen peak is lone and bare, No foot of man hath ever rested there ;
Yet 'tis thy sport to soar Far o'er its frowning summit- and the plain Would seek to win thy downward wing in vain,
Or the green sea-beat shore.
The limits of thy course no daring eye
Is trackless and unknown;
Thou art, with him, alone.
Imperial wanderer! the storms that shake
Are never felt by thee!-
And thus the soul, with upward flight like thine, May track the realms where heaven's own glories
shine, And scorn the tempest's power;Yet meaner cares oppress its drooping wings; Still to earth's joys the sky-born wanderer clings
Those pageants of an hour!
The flowers, the many
flowers That all along the smiling valley grew,
While the sun lay for hours, Kissing from off their drooping lids the dew;
They, to the summer air
Vainly, to bind her hair,
The breeze, the gentle breeze
Loitering mid blossomed trees,
No more adventuresome,
The boisterous North has come,
The brook, the limpid brook
Forth from its rocky nook,
Its pleasant song is hushed ;-
Freely, where once it gushed,
The hours, the youthful hours,
Idling with fresh culled flowers,
Fond hours, but half enjoyed,
And dear hopes were destroyed
Young life, young turbulent life,
'Tis lost mid folly's strife,– O’erwhelmed, at length, by passion's curbless force.
Nor deem youth's buoyant hours
Who dreams away his powers,