And the fresh and flowery plains, And the gentle rippling spring, And the dear though wild domains, Yet on, proud bird, sail on! Unheeding rock or nest; Though thou from them all hast gone, By the stream where thou hast quaffed, In the plains where thou lovedst to be, The hunter's deadly shaft Might have found its way to thee; But now thou art rising high, Thou hast left, thou hast left them all; And thou fearest not, in the sky, An earthly shaft or thrall. Yet, wherefore dost thou turn On, where the sunbeams burn! And wherefore dost thou rest Why look back to thy nest With such fond lingering? It hath precious ties for thee, That can tempt thee back again; Though thou know'st the earth must be But a scene of fear and pain. Sail on, proud bird, from earth, Wilt thou not 'scape the snare ? Ah! freedom were little worth, That thy loved ones could not share! THE DEAD. 66 'Oh, such a death is beautiful as life!" And she does not hear the sound Of the mournful sighs and heavy sobs The gentle smile is resting still Upon her features pale; The dark curls on her forehead chill, Part like a sable yeil; Her eyes are closed; and her cheek's the same, Save that it hath no tear; Yet this is Death!-the thing we name With shuddering and with fear. True, there are some who view the grave A spot where wearied hearts shall have No cold and earthly chain. And there are some who, dying, trust Upon the tomb, that o'er their dust The living fondly raise. But she, who never struck the lyre, Or won a hero's name, Who knew her memory would expire, Nor leave one wreck to fame, |