Poems (Cook)/Song of the Wind

by Eliza Cook

SONG OF THE WIND.

I've cradled on the topsail, o'er a smooth and glassy deep,
Till mariners have whistled to arouse me from my sleep;
I've seen the lovegift kiss'd by him who had the watch aloft;
And breathed no ruffling whisper round the tress so dark and soft:
But lo! I started into life, I call'd the tempest band,
And soon the hull was on the rock, the spars were on the strand:
I snatch'd the glossy ringlet from the struggling sea-boy's breast,
And dropp'd it on the mountain-side within an eagle's nest.
Outwearied with my fierce career, I left the frantic train,
Whose lightning-brands and thunder-roars had helped the hurricane—
And, sinking into gentle mood, I took my lonely way,
Just breaking through the cobweb film, and dancing on the spray.

A castle door was flinging wide, and straight I enter'd there,
Where rich aroma greeted me of luscious banquet-fare:
I travell'd on by silken walls, and loiter'd round the board;
Where forest-deer was smoking high, and bubbling flasks were pour'd.
Choked with the mingled odours nigh, and sicken'd with the fume
Of hot and tainted revel breath, I left the palace-room:
I hasten'd to the harvest-fields, I scatter'd poppy leaves,
And plumed and purified my wings upon the harvest-sheaves.

A young child came and stood to gaze on all things bright and sweet;
The butterfly was round his head, the wild-flower at his feet:
I grasped an airy thistle-tuft, I cried, "Come, follow me,"
And off he bounded, light and fast, and rare good sport had we.
Full long he strove with all his strength to gain the bubble prize,
As high and low it scudded on, and danced before his eyes;
Until his panting heart became half angry and half sad,
To think he had not caught a thing worth nothing if he had.

At last I blew it into nought, and then the boy stood still;
And found the chase had tired him, as all such chases will:
But while I linger'd round the spot, I saw him turn and creep
Beneath a spreading chesnut-tree, and calmly fall asleep.
Man, like the child, will often run in close and fond pursuit
Of what will prove but thistle-down, or yield a bitter fruit;
But ah! unlike the tired child, 'tis rarely that his breast
Can meet its disappointed hopes with deep, unbroken rest.

On to the busy town I went, and fann'd the burning brow
That many an hour had fed the loom, or faced the furnace glow;
Lips never dimpled with a smile, all tintless, parch'd, and thin,
Parted as I went wafting by, and gladly drank me in.
I play'd about the shrivell'd hand, whose hard and fever'd palm
Grew somewhat softer as it felt my cool, refreshing balm.
The tear-drop that was trickling from a friendless orphan's eye
Was lightly breathed upon by me, and soon the cheek was dry.

I wander'd on till suddenly I heard a fervent prayer,
That gasp'd the last of mortal need in "Give, oh, give me air!"
I rush'd beside the bed of death—the dying one had gold,
But he had piled it round his heart, and kept that heart too cold;
He clung to earth like leech to blood, but, ah! he had forgot
To weave the strongest of earth's ties, Affection's silken knot,
And when his latest moments came, no kindred could he find,
None round him but the hireling, and the wandering, zephyr Wind.

Again I sought the fragrant fields, and merrily I rung
A fairy peal of changes where the bonnie blue-bells hung;
And soon there came the grasshoppers, the ladybirds, and bees;
And never was a purer host of willing devotees.
I bow'd the bulrush to the stream, I sway'd the willow-bough,
And push'd a mimic boat along till ripples wash'd the prow.
I gallop'd with the noble steed, freed from his girth and rein,
And proudly did I toss about his thick and flying mane.
I sped across the lonely waste, and there I heard strange tones,
For I had swung the gibbet-chains against the bleaching bones;
I clank'd the rusted fetter-links with white ribs hard and dry,
Till I had scared the owls away, and then away went I.

From East to West, from North to South, a roving life is mine;
Now howling round the snow-topp'd fir, now toying with the vine;
From beggar's rags to prince's robes, from hut to court I go;
I rule the golden clouds above, and drive the waves below.

Away! away! I cannot stay, I hear the ploughboy's song—
But I can chant as carelessly and whistle just as long:
It comes again—up, up, my wings! the saucy loon shall find
He hath a goodly challenger in me, the angry Wind.