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PSYCHE BORNE BY ZEPHYRS.
A land that sees no parting,
That hears no sound of sighs,
That waits thee with immortal air—
Lift, lift those anxious eyes!
Oh! how like thee, thou trembler,
Man's spirit fondly clings,
With timid love, to this, its world
Of old familiar things!
We pant, we thirst for fountains
That gush not here below;
On, on we toil, allured by dreams
Of the living water's flow:
We pine for kindred natures,
To mingle with our own;
For communings more full and high
Than aught by mortal known:
