Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/342

326 ELEANOR P. LEE. 1840-50.] To call thee from the raging skies Back to the spreading earth again ? Hast thou no sweet and silent nest, Wherein to watch thy little brood ? No spot of earth, where thou canst rest, When thou art sick of solitude ? No home ! no home ! Oh, weary one ! And art thou like the dove of yore, Wlio found no spot to rest upon. Wandering the waste of waters o'er? And hath thy slender wing the might, Day and night on the lonely sea, To bear thee on th' eternal flight That makes thy life a mystery ? A weary doom ! a weary doom ! For evermore to range ! Never again to fold thy plume In the peace which knows no change. There rests on many a human thing The shadow of thy fate ; In hearts forever wandering, Alone and desolate. They who bear on from land to land Some deep and restless grief — Some agony, whose withering hand Hath crushed a joy too brief — They, who go wandering, wandering yet. O'er mount, and plain, and sea, Seeking forever to forget, They only rove like thee. They hurry through the tempest's wi*ath. And know not that it raves ; They hurry on the lightning's path, And o'er the midnight waves. Yet, though the way be drear and dark, And weary be the breast, The arrow hurries to its mark. The worn heart to its rest. I will not muse on things like these, For it is idle now. Fling back, fling back, oh, ocean breeze! The dai'k locks from my brow ; So I may watch the whirling flight Of the bird of the stormy hour — The Petrel — on whose path of light Blooms not one earthly flower. Unresting one, thou'rt fading fast From the eyes that gaze on thee ; Thy pinion like a dream hath past Far o'er the dark blue sea. Go, and when our pennon streams Beyond the tropic line. Bear to some other heart the dreams Which thou hast borne to mine. THE NATCHEZ LIGHT-HOUSE. Lofty and lone it stood. That towery light-house, on my native shore ; And from the impending clifi" looked on the flood, To light the waters o'er. Oft from that river low, I've upward gazed into the heavens' breast, And deemed that turret's bright and steady glow An orb that lit the west. Often, returning far From my young wanderings over shore and sea, I've deemed that beacon blaze a glorious star, By angels lit for me. But with the passing years, I saw that old, dark tower was of the earth ; Yet loved I it, even unto gushing tears — It lit my place of birth ! There, there alone had I A right to stretch my arms toward the clay