TO THE CONDOR BY E. F. ELLET. 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 Dost thou in silence, breathless and aloneWhile round thee swells of life no kindred toneSuspend 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 Has 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, Beyond the bolt-beyond the lightning's gleam, 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; THE FUTURE. BY A. M. WELLS. 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 Its whispered love is to the violet given; And scared the sportive trifler back to heaven. The brook, the limpid brook That prattled of its coolness as it went 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;- The mountain torrent drives its noisy way. The hours, the youthful hours, In dreams that ne'er could know reality; Fond hours, but half enjoyed, Like the sweet summer breeze they passed away, Young life, young turbulent life, If, like the stream, it take a wayward course, O'erwhelmed, at length, by passion's curbless force. 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 there is music on each breeze There's gladness too in everything, For everywhere comes on, with Spring, A charm which cannot pall! |