THE WANDERING QUAIL. 
TO THE WANDERING QUAIL. 
"Whitlicr away, 0 tliou wandering Quail ? 
Whither away o'er the wide wild seas ? 
Hear'st thou a voice from some Persian vale ? 
Hear'st thou a call from the Cyclades? 
The spring, with his mantle of green, hath fled, 
And summer hath breathed her last perfumed breath, 
And autumn is piping, in russet and red, 
His call unto Winter, who bringeth in death. 
Then whither away 'mid the shadows of night, 
When ocean lies calm 'neath the smile of the moon ? 
Frail creature thou seem'st, for such wearisome flight ; 
Wilt thou rest in the south by to-morrow at noon ? 
I hear thy shrill piping ; the flutter of wings 
Is filling mine ears as I stand on the shore ; 
A cloud sweeps before me of shadowy things ; 
It is gone ; in the distance I see it no more. 
It is gone ; like a smoke-wreath it melteth away, 
And I hear the Quail piping no more on the hills ; 
But my thoughts wander with it, for many a day, 
Through Italy's groves, and by Palestine's rills. 
I see the grey pyramids piercing the skies ; 
I see the wide desert ; and back to the past, 
As I go with the Quail, ah ! what visions arise, 
Of human transgressions, and hopes overcast, 
Of Divine retribution, and mercy at last ! 
