When the warring winds were roaring Where is now that restless longing Come they not, like visions, thronging Why should not their glow enchant thee Surely danger cannot daunt thee From a heaven like this. But thou slumberest; faint and quivering Hangs thy ruffled wing; Like a dove in winter shivering, Or a feebler thing. Where is now thy might and motion, Thy imperial flight? Where is now thy heart's devotion? Where thy spirit's light? Hark! his rustling plumage gathers Closer to his side, Close, as when the storm-bird weathers Now his nodding beak is steady- Now his opening wings are ready, And his aim-how high! Now he curves his neck, and proudly Through the rock and storm, Now, like sunset over fountains, Glorious bird, thy dream has left thee- Of the glory given. With a bold, a fearless pinion, On thy starry road, None, to fame's supreme dominion, The Spirit of Poetry.-LONGFellow. THERE is a quiet spirit in these woods, That dwells where'er the gentle south wind blows- Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter. And here, amid Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself -Hence gifted bards Their old poetic legends to the wind. And this is the sweet spirit that doth fill The world; and, in these wayward days of youth, My busy fancy oft imbodies it, As a bright image of the light and beauty That dwell in nature-of the heavenly forms |