GANYMEDE TO HIS EAGLE,
SUGGESTED BY A WORK OF THORWALDSEN'S.
Composed on the height called the Eagle's Nest, Oregon, Rock River,
July 4th, 1843.
| Upon the rocky mountain stood the boy, |
| A goblet of pure water in his hand, |
| His face and form spoke him one made for joy, |
| A willing servant to sweet love's command, |
| But a strange pain was written on his brow, |
| And thrilled throughout his silver accents now — |
| “My bird,” he cries, “my destined brother friend, |
| O whither fleets to-day thy wayward flight? |
| Hast thou forgotten that I here attend, |
| From the full noon until this sad twilight? |
| A hundred times, at least, from the clear spring, |
| Since the full noon o'er hill and valley glowed, |
| I've filled the vase which our Olympian king |
| Upon my care for thy sole use bestowed; |
| That at the moment when thou should'st descend, |
| A pure refreshment might thy thirst attend. |
| Hast thou forgotten earth, forgotten me, |
| Thy fellow bondsman in a royal cause, |
| Who, from the sadness of infinity, |
| Only with thee can know that peaceful pause |
| In which we catch the flowing strain of love, |
| Which binds our dim fates to the throne of Jove? |
| |
| Before I saw thee, I was like the May, |
| Longing for summer that must mar its bloom, |
| Or like the morning star that calls the day, |
| Whose glories to its promise are the tomb; |
| And as the eager fountain rises higher |
| To throw itself more strongly back to earth, |
| Still, as more sweet and full rose my desire, |
| More fondly it reverted to its birth, |
| For, what the rosebud seeks tells not the rose, |
| The meaning foretold by the boy the man cannot disclose. |
| I was all Spring, for in my being dwelt |
| Eternal youth, where flowers are the fruit, |
| Full feeling was the thought of what was felt, |
| Its music was the meaning of the lute; |
| But heaven and earth such life will still deny, |
| For earth, divorced from heaven, still asks the question Why? |
| Upon the highest mountains my young feet |
| Ached, that no pinions from their lightness grew, |
| My starlike eyes the stars would fondly greet, |
| Yet win no greeting from the circling blue; |
| Fair, self-subsistent each in its own sphere, |
| They had no care that there was none for me; |
| Alike to them that I was far or near, |
| Alike to them, time and eternity. |
| But, from the violet of lower air, |
| Sometimes an answer to my wishing came, |
| Those lightning births mv nature seemed to share, |
| They told the secrets of its fiery frame, |
| The sudden messengers of hate and love, |
| The thunderbolts that arm the hand of Jove, |
| And strike sometimes the sacred spire, and strike the sacred grove. |
| |
| Come in a moment, in a moment gone, |
| They answered me, then left me still more lone, |
| They told me that the thought which ruled the world, |
| As yet no sail upon its course had furled, |
| That the creation was but just begun, |
| New leaves still leaving from the primal one, |
| But spoke not of the goal to which my rapid wheels would run. |
| Still, still my eyes, though tearfully, I strained |
| To the far future which my heart contained, |
| And no dull doubt my proper hope profaned. |
| At last, O bliss, thy living form I spied, |
| Then a mere speck upon a distant sky, |
| Yet my keen glance discerned its noble pride, |
| And the full answer, of that sun-filled eye; |
| I knew it was the wing that must upbear |
| My earthlier form into the realms of air. |
| Thou knowest how we gained that beauteous height, |
| Where dwells the monarch of the sons of light, |
| Thou knowest he declared us two to be |
| The chosen servants of his ministry, |
| Thou as his messenger, a sacred sign |
| Of conquest, or with omen more benign, |
| To give its due weight to the righteous cause, |
| To express the verdict of Olympian laws. |
| And I to wait upon the lonely spring, |
| Which slakes the thirst of bards to whom 'tis given |
| The destined dues of hopes divine to sing, |
| And weave the needed chain to bind to heaven. |
| Only from such could be obtained a draught |
| For him who in his early home from Jove's own cup has quaffed. |
| |
| To wait, to wait, but not to wait too long, |
| Till heavy grows the burthen of a song; |
| O bird! too long hast thou been gone to-day, |
| My feet are weary of their frequent way, |
| The spell that opes the spring my tongue no more can say. |
| If soon thou com'st not, night will fall around, |
| My head with a sad slumber will be bound, |
| And the pure draught be spilt upon the ground. |
| Remember that I am not yet divine, |
| Long years of service to the fatal Nine |
| Are yet to make a Delphian vigor mine. |
| O, make them not too hard, thou bird of Jove, |
| Answer the stripling's hope, confirm his love, |
| Receive the service in which he delights, |
| And bear him often to the serene heights, |
| Where hands that were so prompt in serving thee, |
| Shall be allowed the highest minstry, |
| And Rapture live with bright Fidelity. |