Whither, midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Thy solitary way? Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, Thy figure floats along. Seek'st thou the plashy brink 50 55 60 5 Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, 10 Or where the rocking billows rise and sink There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast- Lone-wandering, but not lost. All day thy wings have fanned, And soon that toil shall end, Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest Thou' art gone-the abyss of heaven And shall not soon depart. He who, from zone to zone, 15 20 25 Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, 30 In the long way that I must tread alone, Will lead my steps aright. William Cullen Bryant. CCLXVII ASPIRATION. Joy for the promise of our loftier homes! A weary weight it lay upon my youth, 5 Hours of a dim despondency were there, Like clouds that take its colour from the rose, Youth grew in strength-to bear a stronger chain; To feel a wider grave. What woe into the startled spirit sank, Far spreads this mystery of death and sin, O for the time when in our seraph wings ΙΟ 15 20 25 Thomas Burbidge. CCLXVIII THE PALM-TREE AND THE PINE. Beneath an Indian palm a girl Of other blood reposes; Her cheek is clear and pale as pearl, Beside a northern pine a boy Is leaning fancy-bound, Nor listens where with noisy joy 5 Cool grows the sick and feverish calm, The pine-tree dreameth of the palm, As soon shall nature interlace As these young lovers face to face IO 15 Lord Houghton. CCLXIX A SUMMER REMINISCENCE. I hear no more the locust beat His shrill loud drum through all the day; Of clover and of scented hay. No more I hear the smothered song From hedges guarded thick with thorn: The days grow brief, the nights are long, I sit before my fire alone, And idly dream of all the past: I think of moments that are flown- 5 ΤΟ The warmth that filled the languid noons The purple waves of trembling haze— The liquid light of silver moons— 15 The summer sunset's golden blaze. I feel the soft winds fan my cheek, I hear them murmur through the rye, I see the milky clouds that seek 20 |