216 



Thou art not lonely, though born to roam, 

 Thou hast no longings that pine for home ! 

 Thou seek'st not the haunts of the bee and bird 

 To fly from the sickness of Hope deferr'd. 



In thy brief being no strife of mind, 

 No boundless passion, is deeply shrined ; 

 But I as I gazed on thy swift flight by, 

 One hour of my soul seem'd infinity ! 



Yet, ere I turn'd from that silent place, 

 Or ceased from watching thy joyous race, 

 Thou, even thou, on those airy wings, 

 Didst waft me visions of brighter things ! 



Thou that dost image the free soul's birth, 

 And its flight away o'er the mists of earth, 

 Oh ! fitly thou shinest mid flowers that rise 

 Round the dark chamber where Geiiiao lies. 



END OF VOL. I. 



EDINBURGH: 

 Printed by ANDREW SHORTHEEO, Thistle Lane. 



