Joyous with youth, an Eagle spread his pinions
One sunny summer day,
And through the wilderness of Air’s dominions
Arose in quest of prey,
When, lo! the forest-ranger’s musquet roared,
And struck him as he soared,
Shattering the tendons of one buoyant wing,
And down to earth he fell, poor wounded thing!
Deep in the hollow of a grassy grove,
Where sleepy myrtles bloomed, and dark boughs wove
A trellis-curtain to shut out the sun,
He lay for three long days, with none
To tend him in that lowly lair,
And fed for three long nights upon his heart’s despair!
All-healing Nature brought at length
Relief at least from agonizing pain,
And some return of youthful strength.
Feebly he leaves his couch and crawls along,
And tries to raise his wing--alas! in vain--
The glory has departed from the Strong,
And henceforth he can only hope to gain
A mean prey from the surface of that earth
Which gives the worm and beetle birth.
In mournful mood he rests beside a stream;
He looks up towards the tall majestic trees
Whose tops are waving to the mountain-breeze;
He sees the sun’s unconquerable beam
Shine forth; he gazes on his native skies,
And tears gush from his eyes.
While Sorrow thus oppressed the noble Bird,
A rustling sound was heard--
A flutter as of soft wings through the grove--
And presently a Turtle-Dove
Alighted on a myrtle-bough anear.
He saw the Eagle droop his kingly head;
He saw tear after tear
Fall from his eyes into the dark rill under,
And sentiments of Pity, blent with Wonder,
Troubled his tender breast. My friend, he said,
Thou grievest! What has made thee grieve?
Thou showest thy wing--Ah! thou art maimed for life!
Well! what of that? Thou shouldst rejoice to leave
A world whose very pleasures most be won by Strife!
For, hast thou not around thee here
All blessings that can make Existence dear?
When high the noontide sunbeam burns,
Yield not these latticed walls a soothing shade?
When starry Night again returns,
Doth not her lamp light up this pleasant glade?
The soft winds bring thee odours from yon orange bowers;
Almost thy very path lies over flowers!
The trees around thee, the rich earth below,
Teem with luxuriance of sweet fruits for food;
The rapid and resounding flood
That rushes downward from the mountain
Flows here, will here for ever flow,
Diminished to a silver fountain
That sings its way o’er golden sands,
Fringed by the lily and young violet.
Here hast thou all a placid soul demands!
What wouldst thou more? Or, canst thou still regret
A barren world, which only lures and juggles
Its dupes to leave them doubly sad and lonely?
My friend! Mind was not made to spend itself in struggles!
True Happiness lies in Contentment only,
And true Contentment ever dwells apart
From Competition and Ambition--brooks
All wants--is rich though poor, and strong when weakest!
Ah, Wise One! spake the Eagle--and his looks
Betrayed the unaltered anguish of his heart--
Ah, Wisdom! ever thus, and thus in vain, thou speakest!