 | The bard, and minor poems |  |
LINES TO A GLED-HAWK,
FLYING IN REGENT'S PARK, LONDON.
What brings thee here, proud mountain-bird,
From thy dwelling far and free?
What dost thou here, whose joy it was
'Mid the towering hills to be?
From thy dwelling far and free?
What dost thou here, whose joy it was
'Mid the towering hills to be?
The cloudlet is thy dwelling-place,
The wilderness thy home,
And soaring through the heaven it is
Thy privilege to roam.
The wilderness thy home,
And soaring through the heaven it is
Thy privilege to roam.
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No charm these prison-walls can wear,
Nought gladdens here thine eye,
Whose heart is with the desert place,
And with thy native sky.
Nought gladdens here thine eye,
Whose heart is with the desert place,
And with thy native sky.
Thine eyrie is the cliff afar,
The pine-tree forest there,—
These are the slumbering memories
That greet thee in the air.
The pine-tree forest there,—
These are the slumbering memories
That greet thee in the air.
O for thy wings, glad mountain-bird,
This beauteous summer day;
The hills of childhood then were mine,
The valley far away!
This beauteous summer day;
The hills of childhood then were mine,
The valley far away!
| The bard, and minor poems | |