Some eyrie on the Alpine cliff,
Some proud Mont-Blanc they fain would climb,
Snatch wreaths of laurel steeped in gore,
Or win from Fame a strain sublime.
They lose of home the heartfelt joys,
The charm of seasons as they roll,
And stake amid their blinding course
The priceless birthright of the soul.
Years fleet, and still they struggle on,
Their dim eye rolls with fading fire,
Perchance the long-sought treasure grasp,
And in the victory expire.
At Sea.
Saturday, August 8th, 1840.
The monotony of a sea-voyage rendered the arrival of a poor, little, trembling land-bird among our shrouds a circumstance of interest. To the children on board it communicated a wild delight, though they grieved to see it so soon fold itswings and die. It reached us, when our ship had been eight days out, in latitude 43° 33", longitude 45° 30", being distant from New York 1340 miles, and from the nearest point of Newfoundland 500, so that the little messenger must have had a weary flight, ere it found a resting place.
It reminded us of the birds that came out to meet
