THE GHOST-FLOWER, AND CHILD. 337 



He shakes the clouds that rain down blood. 

 All beautiful, and strong, and good, 

 He is the sky's bold robber still. 

 When meaning of his life you seek, 

 He vanishes in lofty cloud, 

 And screameth down defiance proud. 

 The clarion screamer, high and loud 

 The type and note of Liberty- 

 Of canquering struggles of the free 

 He comes like warriors suddenly ; 



In fell and silent swoop 



He comes so fell a-flying, 



It sounds most like the sighing 



Of stricken roe-buck dying, 



When the feathered arrow sped. 

 And then he scorns to touch the dead, 

 E'en though there be much plunder there ; 

 He leaves it to the vulture dread 

 His carrion to tear ! 

 He scorneth, like the Lion-cat, 

 To touch a prey he hath not slain, 

 It must be won by might and main 

 He drinketh no cold blood like that ! 

 Like proud, exulting Thought, on high, 

 He has strong wings, and why not he, 

 Be type of all wild liberty ? 

 Thoughts like him go up toward heaven, 

 And even souls such wings are given, 

 And glory, beauty, sunlight first, 

 Are too thrown down by him from heaven, 

 And yet of all things winged the worst 

 If bloody talons, bloody beak, 

 Are the types by which you speak ! 

 And yet this blood has set us free ! 

 Blood broke our chains espirituelie, 

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