| BIRDS OF PASSAGE.
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See flocks of birds flying
To far foreign land;
They travel on, sighing,
From Ganthiod's strand;
With all weathers mixeth
Their wailing accord:
"Where land we? where fixeth
Our dwelling Thy word?"
So clamours the feather-clad flock to the Lord.
"We leave now so sadly
The Scandian fell;
There throve we; so gladly
Therein did we dwell;
In bloom-covered trees there
We builded our nest,
The balm-laden breeze there
Safe rocked us to rest.
Now stretches our flight unto regions unguessed.
"With rosy wreath in
Her ringlets of gold,
Sat Midsummer Night in
The forest, sweet-souled.
In sleep ne'er reposed we —
So lovely she seemed —
With rapture just dozed we
Till clear morning beamed
And waked us again from the car where he gleamed.
"Then vaulted groves swinging
O'er hillocks arose,
With pearls to them clinging,
And quivered the rose.
The oak is now shattered,
The roses have fled,
The winds' play is scattered
In storms overhead.
With frost-blossoms white is the May-meadow spread.
"What do we to stay now
In Northland? Its run
Grows straighter each day now,
And dimmer its sun.
What boots us our crying?
We leave but a grave.
In space to be flying
God wings to us gave.
Thus, then, we salute thee, thou deep-roaring wave!"
The birds with this song on
Their journey are whirled.
Till welcomed, ere long, on
A lovelier world;
Where vine-tendrils swaying
To elm-branches cling,
And rivulets playing
Mid myrtle-groves spring.
And woodlands with hope and with happiness ring.
When dire haps arriving
Thy fortunes control,
When storm-winds are driving,
Then weep not, oh soul!
There smiles o'er the wave there
At each bird a strand;
On yon side the grave there
Is also a land
All gilt with eternity's bright morning's brand.
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| From The Swedish of Stagnelius.
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