Page:A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields.djvu/231

198 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.