Where the gray crag kisses the virgin sky,
And the fledgling eagles half-famished cry,
Where the sun’s kind glance warms the cloud to tears,
And the snow-bank clings to the earth for years;
Where the lichens starve and the sad winds mourn,
There, a host of cupids at eve were born.
They came tumbling out from their rocky nest,
Nor regretful wailed for the rugged breast;
But astride the crest of a stream as blue
As the star-lit sky; with their arrows true,
Downy, sun-tipped wings and the briefest legs,
Just like dear young ducklings released from eggs.
They are fluttering, splashing in frolic gay,
Whirling here and there in the misty spray;
Now, anon, down dizziest steeps they glide,
All demurely, roguishly, side by side;
In their path, huge bowlders await, but see!
With a somersault they are passed in glee.
Through a rock-bound glen next they gurgling go.
’Neath caressing, whispering branches, low,
For a splashing romp, undisturbed by fear,
In a broad lake, billowy, deep and clear;
But they’re nearing, blindly, the crumbling edge
Of a ragged, cruel and treacherous ledge;
While those countless myriads are hurrying in,—
Crowding, racing, chasing from brim to brim:
Hark! With hands clasped over an aching breast,
A poor Soul moans, “Come to me, Love, and rest;
Long and patiently have I watched for you:
Fill my heart and home with yourselves so true.”
Do you hear them chant, in their rapturous glee,
“Never tires Love, Soul; we are not for thee.
We must on and on, like the water blue;
Bravely wait, work, hope, till your Love finds you.
Danger waits below; you are tempting Death;”
She is calling, still; for, with bated breath,
Has she watched, benumbed, while a sportive elf
Laughing wildly, recklessly, cast himself
From their midst, to the surging depths below;
And she moans, “Dear Love, I shall miss you so.”
“Love but laughs at dangers; fear not;” they say,
“Fancy not he dies: We all live for aye.”
Right over they tumbled;—she peers down to see—
Not death;—but mad revels of exquisite glee:
Joyous myriads whirled in the dashing spray!
Think ye not love dies in an hour—a day;
’Tis his dim, dull shadow, o’er which men weep,
When a sun-cloud gives to the shadow, sleep;
But Immortal love, ever close beside,
Through life’s midnight hours will undimmed abide.
Watch and pray, lone Soul, for the love that lasts;
Sighing not o’er shadows another casts;
Lest a passion-cloud should engulf your way,
Till you, helpless and hopeless, drift astray.