Poems eBook

Squirrel, mount yon oak so high,
To its twig that next the sky
    Bends and trembles as a flower! 
Strain, O stork, thy pinion well,—­
From thy nest ’neath old church-bell,
Mount to yon tall citadel,
    And its tallest donjon tower! 
To your mountain, eagle old,
Mount, whose brow so white and cold,
    Kisses the last ray of even! 
And, O thou that lov’st to mark
Morn’s first sunbeam pierce the dark,
Mount, O mount, thou joyous lark—­
    Joyous lark, O mount to heaven! 
And now say, from topmost bough,
Towering shaft, and peak of snow,
    And heaven’s arch—­O, can you see
One white plume that like a star,
Streams along the plain afar,
And a steed that from the war
    Bears my lover back to me?

JOHN L. O’SULLIVAN.

THE LOVER’S WISH.

("Si j’etais la feuille.")

[XXII., September, 1828.]

Oh! were I the leaf that the wind of the West,
  His course through the forest uncaring;
To sleep on the gale or the wave’s placid breast
  In a pendulous cradle is bearing.

All fresh with the morn’s balmy kiss would I haste,
  As the dewdrops upon me were glancing;
When Aurora sets out on the roseate waste,
  And round her the breezes are dancing.

On the pinions of air I would fly, I would rush
  Thro’ the glens and the valleys to quiver;
Past the mountain ravine, past the grove’s dreamy hush,
  And the murmuring fall of the river.

By the darkening hollow and bramble-bush lane,
  To catch the sweet breath of the roses;
Past the land would I speed, where the sand-driven plain
  ’Neath the heat of the noonday reposes.

Past the rocks that uprear their tall forms to the sky,
  Whence the storm-fiend his anger is pouring;
Past lakes that lie dead, tho’ the tempest roll nigh,
  And the turbulent whirlwind be roaring.

On, on would I fly, till a charm stopped my way,
  A charm that would lead to the bower;
Where the daughter of Araby sings to the day,
  At the dawn and the vesper hour.

Then hovering down on her brow would I light,
  ’Midst her golden tresses entwining;
That gleam like the corn when the fields are bright,
  And the sunbeams upon it shining.

A single frail gem on her beautiful head,
  I should sit in the golden glory;
And prouder I’d be than the diadem spread
  Round the brow of kings famous in story.

V., Eton Observer.

THE SACKING OF THE CITY.

("La flamme par ton ordre, O roi!")

[XXIII., November, 1825.]

Thy will, O King, is done!  Lighting but to consume,
  The roar of the fierce flames drowned even the shouts and shrieks;
Reddening each roof, like some day-dawn of bloody doom,
  Seemed they in joyous flight to dance about their wrecks.