Oh—oh had I only the wings of a dove!
LXXIV.
O Earth, it is a weary place,
A never lighten’d gloom;
The charnel of a dying race;
The soaring spirit’s tomb.
Oh Earth, ’tis a dismal nook at best,
I never can bear it more;
As eaglets never can bear their nest,
When once they have learn’d to soar!