198
A SHEAF GLEANED
I see the martlet of the shore
Above a lake of blue and gold,
As o'er his dreams a poet, soar,
Then balanced, slumber in the cold.
Wheel, flutter, sleep, at thy sweet will,
O happy brother! I have met
But scorn upon the Muse's hill;
Ah, where's my bird,—it comes not yet.
O come at last, I pray thee, bird!
Dark messenger from heaven of good,
Raven, whose croak Elijah heard,
Whose crumbs in deserts were his food;
Come with the part to me assigned,
'Tis time, alas! the shadows set;
Past with the prophet! I can find
Nowhere my bird,—it comes not yet.
