My bird has flown away, Far out of sight has flown, I know not where.

Look in your lawn, I pray, Ye maidens, kind and fair, And see if my beloved bird be there.

His eyes are full of light; The eagle of the rock has such an eye; And plumes, exceeding bright, Round his smooth temples lie, And sweet his voice and tender as a sigh.

Look where the gra.s.s is gay With summer blossoms, haply there he cowers; And search, from spray to spray, The leafy laurel-bowers, For well he loves the laurels and the flowers.

Find him, but do not dwell, With eyes too fond, on the fair form you see, Nor love his song too well; Send him, at once, to me, Or leave him to the air and liberty.

For only from my hand He takes the seed into his golden beak, And all unwiped shall stand The tears that wet my cheek, Till I have found the wanderer I seek.

My sight is darkened o'er, Whene'er I miss his eyes, which are my day, And when I hear no more The music of his lay, My heart in utter sadness faints away.

THE NIGHT JOURNEY OF A RIVER.

Oh River, gentle River! gliding on In silence underneath the starless sky!

Thine is a ministry that never rests Even while the living slumber. For a time The meddler, man, hath left the elements In peace; the ploughman breaks the clods no more; The miner labors not, with steel and fire, To rend the rock, and he that hews the stone, And he that fells the forest, he that guides The loaded wain, and the poor animal That drags it, have forgotten, for a time, Their toils, and share the quiet of the earth.

Thou pausest not in thine allotted task, Oh darkling River! Through the night I hear Thy wavelets rippling on the pebbly beach; I hear thy current stir the rustling sedge, That skirts thy bed; thou intermittest not Thine everlasting journey, drawing on A silvery train from many a woodland spring And mountain-brook. The dweller by thy side, Who moored his little boat upon thy beach, Though all the waters that upbore it then Have slid away o'er night, shall find, at morn, Thy channel filled with waters freshly drawn From distant cliffs, and hollows where the rill Comes up amid the water-flags. All night Thou givest moisture to the thirsty roots Of the lithe willow and o'erhanging plane, And cherishest the herbage of thy bank, Spotted with little flowers, and sendest up Perpetually the vapors from thy face, To steep the hills with dew, or darken heaven With drifting clouds, that trail the shadowy shower.

Oh River! darkling River! what a voice Is that thou utterest while all else is still-- The ancient voice that, centuries ago, Sounded between thy hills, while Rome was yet A weedy solitude by Tiber's stream!

How many, at this hour, along thy course, Slumber to thine eternal murmurings, That mingle with the utterance of their dreams!

At dead of night the child awakes and hears Thy soft, familiar dashings, and is soothed, And sleeps again. An airy mult.i.tude Of little echoes, all unheard by day, Faintly repeat, till morning, after thee, The story of thine endless goings forth.

Yet there are those who lie beside thy bed For whom thou once didst rear the bowers that screen Thy margin, and didst water the green fields; And now there is no night so still that they Can hear thy lapse; their slumbers, were thy voice Louder than Ocean's, it could never break.

For them the early violet no more Opens upon thy bank, nor, for their eyes, Glitter the crimson pictures of the clouds, Upon thy bosom, when the sun goes down.

Their memories are abroad, the memories Of those who last were gathered to the earth, Lingering within the homes in which they sat, Hovering above the paths in which they walked, Haunting them like a presence. Even now They visit many a dreamer in the forms They walked in, ere at last they wore the shroud.

And eyes there are which will not close to dream, For weeping and for thinking of the grave, The new-made grave, and the pale one within.

These memories and these sorrows all shall fade, And pa.s.s away, and fresher memories And newer sorrows come and dwell awhile Beside thy borders, and, in turn, depart.

On glide thy waters, till at last they flow Beneath the windows of the populous town, And all night long give back the gleam of lamps, And glimmer with the trains of light that stream From halls where dancers whirl. A dimmer ray Touches thy surface from the silent room In which they tend the sick, or gather round The dying; and a slender, steady beam Comes from the little chamber, in the roof Where, with a feverous crimson on her cheek, The solitary damsel, dying, too, Plies the quick needle till the stars grow pale.

There, close beside the haunts of revel, stand The blank, unlighted windows, where the poor, In hunger and in darkness, wake till morn.

There, drowsily, on the half-conscious ear Of the dull watchman, pacing on the wharf, Falls the soft ripple of the waves that strike On the moored bark; but guiltier listeners Are nigh, the prowlers of the night, who steal From shadowy nook to shadowy nook, and start If other sounds than thine are in the air.

Oh, glide away from those abodes, that bring Pollution to thy channel and make foul Thy once clear current; summon thy quick waves And dimpling eddies; linger not, but haste, With all thy waters, haste thee to the deep, There to be tossed by shifting winds and rocked By that mysterious force which lives within The sea's immensity, and wields the weight Of its abysses, swaying to and fro The billowy ma.s.s, until the stain, at length, Shall wholly pa.s.s away, and thou regain The crystal brightness of thy mountain-springs.

THE LIFE THAT IS.

Thou, who so long hast pressed the couch of pain, Oh welcome, welcome back to life's free breath-- To life's free breath and day's sweet light again, From the chill shadows of the gate of death!

For thou hadst reached the twilight bound between The world of spirits and this grosser sphere; Dimly by thee the things of earth were seen, And faintly fell earth's voices on thine ear.

And now, how gladly we behold, at last, The wonted smile returning to thy brow!

The very wind's low whisper, breathing past, In the light leaves, is music to thee now.

Thou wert not weary of thy lot; the earth Was ever good and pleasant in thy sight; Still clung thy loves about the household hearth, And sweet was every day's returning light.

Then welcome back to all thou wouldst not leave, To this grand march of seasons, days, and hours; The glory of the morn, the glow of eve, The beauty of the streams, and stars, and flowers;

To eyes on which thine own delight to rest; To voices which it is thy joy to hear; To the kind toils that ever pleased thee best, The willing tasks of love, that made life dear.

Welcome to grasp of friendly hands; to prayers Offered where crowds in reverent worship come, Or softly breathed amid the tender cares And loving inmates of thy quiet home.

Thou bring'st no tidings of the better land, Even from its verge; the mysteries opened there Are what the faithful heart may understand In its still depths, yet words may not declare.

And well I deem, that, from the brighter side Of life's dim border, some o'erflowing rays Streamed from the inner glory, shall abide Upon thy spirit through the coming days.

Twice wert thou given me; once in thy fair prime, Fresh from the fields of youth, when first we met, And all the blossoms of that hopeful time Cl.u.s.tered and glowed where'er thy steps were set.

And now, in thy ripe autumn, once again Given back to fervent prayers and yearnings strong, From the drear realm of sickness and of pain When we had watched, and feared, and trembled long.

Now may we keep thee from the balmy air And radiant walks of heaven a little s.p.a.ce, Where He, who went before thee to prepare For His meek followers, shall a.s.sign thy place.

CASTELLAMARE, _May_, 1858.

SONG.

"THESE PRAIRIES GLOW WITH FLOWERS."

These prairies glow with flowers, These groves are tall and fair, The sweet lay of the mocking-bird Rings in the morning air; And yet I pine to see My native hill once more, And hear the sparrow's friendly chirp Beside its cottage-door.

And he, for whom I left My native hill and brook, Alas, I sometimes think I trace A coldness in his look!

If I have lost his love, I know my heart will break; And haply, they I left for him Will sorrow for my sake.

A SICK-BED.

Long hast thou watched my bed, And smoothed the pillow oft For this poor, aching head, With touches kind and soft.

Oh! smooth it yet again, As softly as before; Once--only once--and then I need thy hand no more.

Yet here I may not stay, Where I so long have lain, Through many a restless day And many a night of pain.

But bear me gently forth Beneath the open sky, Where, on the pleasant earth, Till night the sunbeams lie.

There, through the coming days, I shall not look to thee My weary side to raise, And shift it tenderly.

There sweetly shall I sleep; Nor wilt thou need to bring And put to my hot lip Cool water from the spring;