88

TO A HAWK.

And, while I gaze, my spirit flies,
Free as thy wing, to distant skies;
To thyme-clad wold, and valley dear,
Where oft I've watched thy proud career.
Again around my morning way,

Gentle, yet bold, my greyhounds play ;
Again, at noon I throw me down

On silver grass, or heather brown,

And gild with young, poetic eye,

The meanest flower that blossoms nigh;

Or people the wild hills again

With thousand fairy forms,-Titania's peerless train.

III.

Ah, happy home! and must it be
For aye my mournful lot

To wander, restless, far from thee,—
To wish in vain, and win thee not?
Vain hope! and merciless as vain!

I will not make thee sport again :
Like yon fierce bird, thou seem'st to shine
A star of heaven, 'midst things divine;
Drawing the wretch's heart and eye,
Then dashing down, in mockery!
I'll look no more-I'll stoop to bear,
Patient and dull, my load of care.
My sickening heart abhors thy ray,
Which shines and lures but to betray!
Vain hope! thy fierce delusion's o'er,-

Patient I'll suffer on, and look to thee no more!

BARNARD.

GLORIOUS remnant of the Gothic pile,

(While yet the church was Rome's), stood half apart In a grand arch, which once screened many an aisle ; These last had disappeared-a loss to art:

The first yet frowned superbly o'er the soil,

And kindled feelings in the roughest heart,

88

TO A HAWK.

And, while I gaze, my spirit flies,
Free as thy wing, to distant skies;
To thyme-clad wold, and valley dear,
Where oft I've watched thy proud career.
Again around my morning way,

Gentle, yet bold, my greyhounds play;

Again, at noon I throw me down

On silver grass, or heather brown,

And gild with young, poetic eye,

The meanest flower that blossoms nigh;

Or people the wild hills again.

With thousand fairy forms,-Titania's peerless train.

III.

Ah, happy home! and must it be
For aye my mournful lot

To wander, restless, far from thee,-
To wish in vain, and win thee not?
Vain hope! and merciless as vain!
I will not make thee sport again :
Like yon fierce bird, thou seem'st to shine
A star of heaven, 'midst things divine;
Drawing the wretch's heart and eye,
Then dashing down, in mockery!
I'll look no more-I'll stoop to bear,
Patient and dull, my load of care.
My sickening heart abhors thy ray,
Which shines and lures but to betray!

Vain hope! thy fierce delusion's o'er,

Patient I'll suffer on, and look to thee no more!

BARNARD.