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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
THE SEA-BIRD FLYING INLAND[1]
Thy path is not as mine:—where thou art blest,
My spirit would but wither: mine own grief
Is in mine eyes a richer, holier thing,
Than all thy happiness.
Hath the summer's breath, on the south-wind borne,
Met the dark seas in their sweeping scorn?
Hath it lured thee, Bird! from their sounding caves,
To the river-shores, where the osier waves?
Or art thou come on the hills to dwell,
Where the sweet-voiced echoes have many a cell?
Where the moss bears print of the wild-deer's tread,
And the heath like a royal robe is spread?
- ↑ Published first in the Edinburgh Literary Journal.
