University of Virginia Library

Thou art soaring away, beautiful bird!
Upon thy pinions into distant lands—
Bathing thy downy bosom's loftiest flight
In welkin zephyrs!—Whither art thou borne
From snowy home through heaven's empyrean depths?
That seem'st, above my soul's uplifted gaze,
A snow-fleece newly shorn from Shiloh's lambs,
And drop half way from heaven!—Thou art alone,
In pearl-tinct azure, pathless, bent for rest,
As now thy pillowed wings are cleaving heaven!
A turtle-dove transition may thy soul
Enjoy while passing into paradise.
Thou'rt buried, artless emigrant, in heaven!
Thou digg'st thy grave among exalted clouds!
God bless thy joyful flight! may seraphs guide
Thy lonely passport unto sun-sought climes,
And woo thy way above unvarying earth.
Fly on, sweet bird! thy voice alone can soothe
Thy clamorous mate, whose tones are all the strains
That language eloquent can well impart—
Go! wind thy wanton neck around her own,
As lovers' arms entwined—with bitter tears—
And recompense her undiminished love!
Oh! listen gently to her clarion voice!
It drops like waves of glory to the earth!
While in the welkin of the skies, the clouds,
Like undulating isles spread out upon
The ocean of eternity, appear
In lawny prospect, like the sweets of some
Ambrosial grove whose incense waves to heaven.
And far away they gather into floods
Of glory, like the waves of sound that came
From Ocean, when the wings of angels flew
To Salem with the music of the Lord.
For now they waltz upon the fields of space,
Wrapped in the glorious embrace of the sun,
In concert with the music of the spheres.
Fly on, celestial bird! for thou shalt rest
Upon the waters of that sunny land
To which thou goest, when, upon thy wings,
Bathed in the fleecy bankments of the sky,
No angels lean to listen to the soul
That now repines!—Go! mingle with thine own,
And they shall be like Gilead to the soul!
For like the healing wells of old, when on
The soul fell Siloah's waters—when from heaven
The rivers of salvation flowed to heal
The nations—shall around thy bosom flow
The crystal fountains! For, beneath thy voice
A ripple shall go forth, so heavenly sweet,
That it shall be, around thy reedy isles,
Like Judah's harp that on the willow boughs
Hung over Jordan. There, the dove shall sigh!
And in that sunny land where all is peace—
Though constancy is thine—thy soul shall learn
A precept from her—seek no second love!
But if thy silver mate should die, sail on
To some transporting scene, where, on the streams,
Beside the tasselled reed-isles, thou shalt hear
The mellow cadence of the winds, and soothe
Thy weary soul once more. For there shall flow
From out the circlings of thy floating form,
Bathed in the flickering dalliance of the gems
Of thy sun-cinctured dimples, like the pearl
Of ocean set in beryl by the deep—
A shell-toned music—whose deep sound shall be
As soft as that sweet sigh of angels, when
They whisper to the soul celestial peace.

Thou art soaring around the throne of light,
Bathed in the tingling radiance of the sun,
Whose bright effulgence, gilding thine abyss
Of burnished glory, scales the heights of heaven!
For on the velvet vesture of the hills,
Throned in the fulgence of celestial day,
In desert embrace—bosomed by the groves—
And where the liquid flowings of the waves
Woo the enamoured banks—thy home shall be.
And from the silver woof of osier boughs,
Bathed in the balmy tears of dewy night,
The spirits of the universe shall weave
A green pavilion for thy winter couch,
And cause the mantle of thy languid mail
To dabble in the ripples of the stream.
And there the long pent music of the voice
Of Nature shall go forth among the aisles,
And shake from off the beaded suckle-boughs,
The nectar dews, whose rustlings on the streams
Shall wake new waves of melody to rise
From out the lily dimples, like the sighs
Of beauty fondling with the locks of love.
For they shall fall as soft upon that lake,
As if an angel's hand had stricken them
From out the leaning rainbows, which were made
A rainbow-harp, whose seven strings were hues.
And there upon the halcyon of thy home,
Bathed in the radiant glimmerings of thy waves—
Burning like molten silver—thou shalt rest—
And with the gushings of thy silver voice,
Fill up the embrace of thy dimples, till,
Upon the waves of thy soft circlings, there
Shall ride the coursing tones of joy, and melt
In kisses on the dewy-mantled shore.
And from the labyrinthine aisles of flowers,
Upon the suckle-scented gales, shall flow
The rich balsamic odours of the spring,
And from the bare arms of the boughs, shall rain
The luscious clusters, till their tones shall be
As soft as the first audible steps of one
Beloved, at the last meeting, heard at night.
And when the curtains of dark night shall fall
Upon the eyelids of the day, and leave the locks
Of darkness sprinkled with the stars; and when
From out the folds of Night shall steal the moon
To bathe in thy sweet waters—take thy rest—
Then couch thy silver head beneath thy wing,
And as the breeze would bear thee, float, and learn
To reconcile thy sorrows with the winds.
Thou'rt gone, celestial bird!—thy pinions fade!
I linger here, gazing upon thy lessening form,
Buoyant between two distant worlds, outspread—
Like lovers parting—those who meet no more!
As night, dark night! her mantle gathers round,
Wrapping thy milky form with dusky shroud.

Oh! when prepared from this reluctant world—
Wishing thy journey mine—wishing in vain—
To pass my solitude—may thine own wings
Await my spirit home—exalted—blest!
And while alone my longing spirit soars—
Yearning that thou art lost—that thou art gone—
The soul that thou dost leave this day, shall live,
And live forever—shine with heavenly light—
Mourning that thou art happier still than man—
And like thy side-long pinions enter heaven.