IN FRENCH FIELDS.
291
TO THE SWALLOW.
Thou who canst mount up to the sky,
Not climbing first the summits steep,
But at a bound, and who canst fly
Down to the valley's utmost deep;
Thou who canst drink, not bending low
Beside the font by which we kneel,
But from the clouds rain-freighted, slow,
Far, far above the earth that wheel;
Thou who departest with the flowers,
And with the spring o'er ocean's foam
Returnest, faithful as the Hours
To two things, Liberty and Home;
Like thee, my soul triumphant soars
On dream-wings borne by worlds of light;
Like thee it stoops and skims the shores;
Alike our tastes, alike our flight!
A nest, and power to range at will,
To thee are indispensable;
I need, as wild mine instincts still,
Free life and love unchangeable.
