A bird that is first to worship the sun,

When he gallops in flame-'till the cloud tides run
In billows of fire-as his course is done :
Above where the fountain is gushing in light ;
Above where the torrent is forth in its might—
Like an imprison'd blaze that is bursting from night!
Or a lion that springs-with a roar from his lair!
Bounding off-all in foam-from the echoing height—
Like a rank of young war-horses-terribly bright.

Their manes all erect!—and their hoofs in the air!
The earth shaking under them-trumpets on high—
And banners unfurling away in the sky-

With the neighing of steeds! and the streaming of hair Above where the silvery flashing is seen—

The striping of waters, that skip o'er the green,

And soft spongy moss, where the fairies have been,
Bending lovely and bright in the young morning's eye,
Like ribands of flame-or the bow of the sky :
Above that dark torrent-above that bright stream-
The gay ruddy fount, with the changeable gleam,
Where the lustre of heaven eternally plays—
The voice may be heard--of the thunderer's bird,
Calling out to her god in a clear, wild scream,
As she mounts to his throne, and unfolds in his beam,
While her young are laid out in his rich red blaze;
And their winglets are fledged in his hottest rays:
Proud bird of the cliff! where the barren-yew springs-
Where the sunshine stays—and the wind-harp sings,
Where the heralds of battle sit-pluming their wings-
A scream! she's awake!-over hill-top and flood;
A crimson light runs!-like the gushing of blood-

Over valley and rock !—over mountain and wood
That bird is abroad-in the van of her brood!

Her sounding pinions in the sun's first gush-
Drinks his meridian blaze and sunset flush:
Worships her idol in his fiercest hour:

Bathes her full bosom in his hottest shower:
Sits amid stirring stars, and bends her beak,
Like the slipp'd falcon-when her piercing shriek
Tells that she stoops upon her cleaving wing,
To drink anew some victim's clear-red spring.
That monarch Bird! that slumbers in the night
Upon the lofty air-peak's utmost height:
Or sleeps upon the wing-amid the ray
Of steady-cloudless-everlasting day!
Rides with the Thunderer in his blazing march :
And bears his lightnings o'er yon boundless arch :
Soars wheeling through the storm, and screams away
Where the young pinions of the morning play.

AMBITION.

I LOVED to hear the war-horn cry,

And panted at the drum's deep roll;

And held my breath, when-flaming high

I saw our starry banners fly,

As challenging the haughty sky,

They went like battle o'er my soul :

For I was so ambitious then,
I burn'd to be the slave-of men.

I stood and saw the morning light,

A standard swaying far and free;
And loved it like the conqu'ring flight
Of angels floating wide and bright
Above the stars, above the fight

Where nations warr'd for liberty.
And thought I heard the battle cry
Of trumpets in the hollow sky.

I sail'd upon the dark-blue deep:

And shouted to the eaglet soaring ; And hung me from a rocking steep, When all but spirits were asleep; And oh, my very soul would leap

To hear the gallant waters roaring; For every sound and shape of strife To me, was but the breath of life.

But, I am strangely alter'd now—

I love no more the bugle voice— The rushing wave-the plunging prowThe mountain with his clouded browThe thunder when his blue skies bow,

And all the sons of God rejoiceI love to dream of tears and sighs, And shadowy hair and half-shut eyes.

HENRY PICKERING.

I THOUGHT IT SLEPT.

FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF CHILDHOOD.

I SAW the infant cherub-soft it lay,
As it was wont, within its cradle, now
Deck'd with sweet-smelling flowers. A sight so strange
Fill'd my young breast with wonder, and I gazed
Upon the babe the more. I thought it slept—
And yet its little bosom did not move!

I bent me down to look into its eyes,

But they were closed: then, softly clasp'd its hand, But mine it would not clasp. What should I do? "Wake, brother, wake!" I then impatient cried.

66

Open thine eyes, and look on me again !"

He would not hear my voice. All pale beside

My weeping mother sat, “and gazed and look'd
Unutterable things." Will he not wake?

I

eager ask'd: She answer'd but with tears.

Her eyes on me, at length, with piteous look

Were cast-now on the babe once more were fix'd-
And now on me: then with convulsive sigh

And throbbing heart, she clasp'd me in her arms,
And in a tone of anguish faintly said—

My dearest boy! thy brother does not sleep;
Alas! he's dead; he never will awake."

He's dead! I knew not what it meant, but more
To know I sought not. For the words so sad,
"He never will awake"-sunk in my soul :
I felt a pang unknown before, and tears
That angels might have shed, my heart dissolved.*

TO THE FRINGILLA MELODIA.†

Joy fills the vale,

With joy ecstatic quivers every wing,

As floats thy note upon the genial gale,
Sweet bird of spring!

The violet

Awakens at thy song, and peers from out
Its fragrant nook, as if the season yet

Remain'd in doubt

* From this little tale of unaffected childish sorrow, Mr. Agate (an estimable young artist of New York) has produced a very touching picture. It was exhibited during the last season, at the National Academy in that city.

+The song-sparrow.