200 THE RECLUSE. 



objectless expanse, and presently disappearing in the same 

 blank. We wonder whence it came ; whither it is going. 

 Bryant's beautiful stanzas, though well known, will bear 

 repetition here : 



TO A WATER-FOWL. 



Whither, 'midst falling dew, 



While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, 

 Far through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue 



Thy solitary way ? 



Vainly the fowler's eye 



Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, 

 As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, 



Thy figure floats along. 



Seek'st thou the plashy brink 

 Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, 

 Or where the rocking billows rise and sink 



On the chafed ocean side ? 



There is a Power whose care 

 Teaches thy way along that pathless coast, 

 The desert and illimitable air, 



Lone wandering, but not lost. 



Al 1 day thy wings have fann'd, 

 At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, 

 Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, 



Though the dark night is near. 



And soon that toil shall end. 

 Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, 

 And scream among thy fellows ; reeds shall bend, 



Soon, o'er thy shelter'd nest. 



Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven 

 Hath swallow'd up thy form ; yet, on my heart, 

 Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, 



And shall not soon depart. 



