All day thy wings have fanned,
At that far height, the cold thin atmosphere,
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,
Though the dark night is near.
And soon that toil shall end,
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend, Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest.
Thou 'rt gone, the abyss of heaven
Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,
And shall not soon depart.
He, who, from zone to zone,
Guides through the boundless ský thy certain flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone,
Will lead my steps aright.
TO MY COMPANIONS.
[From the Collegian.]
MINE ancient chair-thy wide embracing arms
Have clasped around me even from a boy;
Hadst thou a voice to speak of years gone by,
Thine were a tale of sorrow and of joy,
Of fevered hopes and ill-foreboding fears,
And smiles unseen, and unrecorded tears.
And thou my table-though unwearied time
Hath set his signet on thine altered brow,
Still can I see thee in thy spotless prime,
And in my memory thou art living now;
Soon must thou slumber with forgotten things,
The peasant's ashes and the dust of kings.
Thou melancholy mug-thy sober brown
Hath something pensive in its evening hue, Not like the things that please the tasteless clown ̧ With gaudy streaks of orange and of blue; And I must love thee, for thou art mine own, Pressed by my lip, and pressed by mine alone.
My broken mirror-faithless, yet beloved,
Thou who canst smile and smile alike on all,
Oft do I leave thee, oft again return,
I scorn the siren, but obey the call;
I hate thy falsehood, while I fear thy truth,
But most- I love thee, flattering friend of youth.
Primeval carpet-every well-worn thread
Has slowly parted with its virgin dye;
I saw thee fade beneath the ceaseless tread,
Fainter and fainter in mine anxious eye;
So flies the color from the brightest flower,
And heaven's own rainbow lives but for an hour
I love you all-there radiates from our own
A soul that lives in every shape we see;
There is a voice, to other ears unknown,
Like echoed music answering to its key.
The dungeoned captive hath a tale to tell,
Of every insect in his lonely cell,
And these poor frailties have a simple tone,
That breathes in accents sweet to me alone.
THE ARCTIC LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS
BY W. C. BRYANT.
GONE is the long long winter night,
Look, my beloved one!
How glorious, through his depths of light,
Rolls the majestic sun.
The willows, waked from winter's death,
Give out a fragrance like thy breath-
The summer is begun!
Aye 't is the long bright summer day:
Hark, to that mighty crash!
The loosened ice-ridge breaks away-
The smitten waters flash.
Seaward the glittering mountain rides,
While, down its green translucent sides,
The foamy torrents dash.
See, love, my boat is moored for thee,
By ocean's weedy floor-
The pettrel does not skim the sea
More swiftly than my oar.
We'll go where, on the rocky isles,
Her eggs the screaming sea-fowl piles
Beside the pebbly shore.
Or, bide thee where the poppy blows,
With wind-flowers frail and fair,
While I, upon this isle of snows,
Seek and defy the bear;
Fierce though he be, and huge of frame,
This arm his savage strength shall tame,
And drag him from his lair.
When crimson sky and flamy cloud
Bespeak the summer fled,
And snows, that melt no more, enshroud
The valleys white and dead,
I'll build of ice thy winter home,
With glistening walls and lucid dome,
And floor with skins bespread.
The white fox by thy couch shall play;
And, from the frozen skies,
The meteors of a mimic day
Shall flash upon thine eyes.
And 1-for such thy vow-meanwhile,
Shall hear thy voice and see thy smile,
Till that long midnight flies.
STRANGE! that one lightly whispered tone
Is far, far sweeter unto me,
Than all the sounds that kiss the earth,
Or breathe along the sea;
But Lady, when thy voice I greet,
Not heavenly music seems so sweet.
I look upon the fair blue skies,
And nought but empty air, I see;
But when I turn me to thine eyes,
It seemeth unto me
Ten thousand angels spread their wings
Within those little azure rings.
The lily hath a softer leaf,
Than ever western wind hath fanned,
But thou shalt have the tender flower,
So I may take thy hand;
That little hand to me doth yield
More joy than all the broidered field.
O lady! there be many things
That seem right fair, below, above.
But sure not one among them all,
Is half so sweet as love-
Let us not pay our vows alone,
But join two altars both in one.
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