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LINES ON A DEAD SEA-FOWL. 



How still and how stiff are these wings of thine 

 That have swept so oft o'er yon ocean blue : 



How dim is the light that was wont to shine 



In thine eyes, as they looked the waters through ; 



And the form that from man would ever fly 



Beneath his footsteps, doth fearless lie. 



It were vain to follow thy wanderings, 

 Since first from the top of thy native cliff, 



Down, down to the ocean on trembling wings 

 Thou comest to float like a fairy skiff ; 



While fondly thy parent birds circled thee, 



And the echoes returned their notes of glee. 



Thou hast oft been the herald of many a gale ; 



Thine omen has wetted the seaman's eye, 

 When merrily thou round the sinking sail, 



Hast wheeled and exalted thy voice on high ; 

 Then rested and trimed thy ruffled plume 

 On the wave that might soon become his tomb. 



To have wandered one summer's day with thee, t 

 Thro' the mystic cells of thy caverned home, 



Thro' the pastless wastes of the welt'ring sea, 

 Thro' the lonely isles, where no footsteps come, 



That thou wouldst have feared, had more blissful been, 



Than ought that can vary this mortal scene. 



The tide is now rising and buffets thee, 



As if in revenge for the scaly prey. 

 Which in days past, when thou wast alive and free, 



Thou hast snatched from its glittering depth away : 

 It denies thee now all it can give a grave, 

 And spurns thee back with its foaming wave. 



Poor innocent stranger I now will lay, 



Thy relics beneath where the flowrets weep, 



Thou hast, in thy time, been as lovely as they, 

 In the shade of their beauty then calmly sleep ; 



The briar with its rose and the heather bell 



Shall mingling their sweetness above thee dwell. 



