Page:Felicia Hemans in The Edinburgh Literary Journal 1829.pdf/3



Thy path is not as mine:—Where thou art blest My spirit would but wither;—my own grief Is in mine eyes a richer, holier thing Than all thy happiness.

the summer's breath, on the south wind borne, Met the dark seas in their sweeping scorn? Hath it lured thee, Bird! from their sounding caves, To the river shores where the osier waves?

Or art thou come on the hills to dwell, Where the sweet-voiced Echoes have many a cell? Where the moss bears print of the wild deer's tread. And the heath like a royal robe is spread?

Thou hast done well, oh! thou bright Sea-bird! There is joy where the song of the lark is heard, With the dancing of waters through copse and dell, And the bee's low tune in the fox-glove's bell.

Thou hast done well:—Oh! the seas are lone, And the voice they send up hath a mournful tone; A mingling of dirges, and wild farewells, Fitfully breathed through its anthem-swells.

—The proud Bird rose as the words were said: The rush of his pinion went o'er my head, And the glance of his eye, in its bright disdain, Spoke him a child of the haughty main.

He hath flown from the woods to the ocean's breast, To his pride of place on the billow's crest! —Oh! who shall say, to a spirit free, "There lies the pathway of bliss for thee!"