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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
Thou art not lonely, tho' born to roam,
Thou hast no longings that pine for home,
Thou seek'st not the haunts of the bee and bird,
To fly from the sickness of hope deferred:
In thy brief being, no strife of mind,
No boundless passion is deeply shrined;
While I—as I gazed on thy swift flight by,
One hour of my soul seemed infinity!
And she, that voiceless below me slept,
Flowed not her song from a heart that wept?
—O love and song, tho' of heaven your powers,
Dark is your fate in this world of ours!
Yet, ere I turned from that silent place,
Or ceased from watching thy sunny race,
Thou, even thou, on those glancing wings,
Didst waft me visions of brighter things!
