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TO THE CONDOR

Wondrous, majestic bird! whose mighty wing Dwells not with puny warblers of the spring;—

Nor on earth's silent breast— Powerful to soar in strength and pride on high, And sweep the azure bosom of the sky,—

Chooses its place of rest.

Proud nursling of the tempest, where repose
Thy pinions at the daylight's fading close?

In what far clime of night
Dost thou in silence, breathless and alone —
While round thee swells of life no kindred tone-

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.

226 TO THE CONDOR.

The limits of thy course no daring eye

lias marked;—thy glorious path of light on high

Is trackless and unknown;
The gorgeous sun thy quenchless gaze may share;
Sole tenant of his boundless realm of air,

Thou art, with him, alone.

Imperial wanderer! the storms that shake

Earth's towers, and bid her rooted mountains quake,

Are never felt by thee !—
Beyond the bolt—beyond the lightning's gleam,
Basking for ever in the unclouded beam—

Thy home—immensity!

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 FUTURE.

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
No longer prodigal, their sweet breath yield;

Vainly, to bind her hair,
The village maiden seeks them in the field.

The breeze, the gentle breeze
That wandered like a frolic child at play,

Loitering mid blossomed trees,
Trailing their stolen sweets along its way,

No more adventuresome,
Its whispered love is to the violet given;

The boisterous North has come,
And scared the sportive trifler back to heaven.

The brook, the limpid brook
That prattled of its coolness as it went

THE FUTURE.

Forth from its rocky nook,
Leaping with joy to be no longer pent,—

Its pleasant song is hushed; —
The sun no more looks down upon its play;—

Freely, where once it gushed,
The mountain torrent drives its noisy way.

The hours, the youthful hours,
When in the cool shade we were wont to lie,

Idling with fresh culled flowers,
In dreams that ne'er could know reality;

Fond hours, but half enjoyed,
Like the sweet summer breeze they passed away,

And dear hopes were destroyed
Like buds that die before the noon of day.

Young life, young turbulent life,
If, like the stream, it take a wayward course,

'Tis lost mid folly's strife,—
O'erwhelmed, at length, by passion's curbless force.

Nor deem youth's buoyant hours
For idle hopes, or useless musings given:

Who dreams away his powers,
The reckless slumberer shall not wake to heaven!

HAPPINESS.

BY A. P. DINNIES.

Happiness Is of the heart, and It is the mind that gives its tone and coloring to Nature.

There is a spell in every flower—

A sweetness in each spray,
And every simple bird has power

To please me with its lay!

And there is music on each breeze

That sports along the glade!
The crystal dew-drops on the trees

Are gems, by Fancy made:

There's gladness too in everything,

And beauty over all,
For everywhere comes on, with Spring,

A charm which cannot pall!

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