THE GHOST-FLOWER, AND CHILD. 
He shakes the clouds that rain down blood. 
All beautiful, and strong, and good, 
He is the skj'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 conquering 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, — 
22 
