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But now, bright Peri of the skies, descending
Thy pearly car hangs o'er yon mountain's crest,
And Night, more nearly now each step attending,
As if to hide thy envied place of rest,
Closes at last thy very couch beside,
A matron curtaining a virgin bride.
Farewell! Though tears on every leaf are starting,
While through the shadowy boughs thy glances quiver,
As of the good when heavenward hence departing,
Shines thy last smile upon the placid river.
So—could I fling o'er glory's tide one ray—
Would I too steal from this dark world away.
A bird peculiar to the East. It is supposed to fly constantly in the air and never touch the ground.]
FLY on : nor touch thy wing, bright bird,
Too near our shaded earth,
Or the warbling, now so sweetly heard,
May lose its note of mirth.
Fly on—nor seek a place of rest
In the home of “care-worn things;”
'Twould dim the light of thy shining crest
And thy brightly burnished wings,
To dip them where the waters glide
That flow from a troubled earthly tide.
The fields of upper air are thine,
Thy place where stars shine free :
I would thy home, bright one, were mine,
Above life's stormy sea.
I would never wander, bird, like thee,
So near this place again,
With wing and spirit once light and free—
They should wear no more the chain
With which they are bound and fettered here,
For ever struggling for skies more clear.
There are many things like thee, bright bird,
Hopes as thy plumage gay;
Our air is with them for ever stirred,
But still in air they stay.
And Happiness, like thee, fair one,
Is ever hovering o'er,
But rests in a land of brighter sun,
On a waveless peaceful shore,
And stoops to lave her weary wings,
Where the fount of “living waters” springs.
His echoing axe the settler swung
Amid the sea-like solitude,
And rushing, thundering, down were flung
The Titans of the wood;
Loud shrieked the eagle as he dashed
From out his mossy nest, which crashed
With its supporting bough,
And the first sunlight, leaping, flashed
On the wolf's haunt below.
Rude was the garb, and strong the frame,
Of him who plied his ceaseless toil:
To form that garb, the wild-wood game
Contributed their spoil;
The soul that warmed that frame, disdained
The tinsel, gaud, and glare, that reigned
Where men their crowds collect;
The simple fur, untrimmed, unstained,
This forest tamer decked.
The paths which wound 'mid gorgeous trees,
The stream whose bright lips kissed their flowers,
The winds that swelled their harmonies
Through those sun-hiding bowers,
The temple vast—the green arcade,
The nestling vale—the grassy glade,
Dark cave and swampy lair;
These scenes and sounds majestic, made
His world, his pleasures, there.
His roof adorned a pleasant spot,
"Mid the black logs green glowed the grain,
And herbs and plants the woods knew not,
Throve in the sun and rain.
The smoke-wreath curling o'er the dell,
The low—the bleat—the tinkling bell,
All made a landscape strange,