« AnteriorContinuar »
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
In what far clime of night
Suspend thy tireless flight?
The mountain's frozen peak is lone and bare,
Yet 'tis thy sport to soar
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;
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 !—
And thus the soul, with upward flight like thine,
And scorn the tempest's power; —
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,—
Nor deem youth's buoyant hours
Who dreams away his powers,
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,
To please me with its lay!
And there is music on each breeze
That sports along the glade!
Are gems, by Fancy made:
There's gladness too in everything,
And beauty over all,
A charm which cannot pall!