THE SHIP AND THE BIRD.—Owen Meredith.

Hear a song that was born in the land of my birth! The anchors are lifted, the fair ship is free, And the shout of the mariners floats in its mirth 'Twixt the light in the sky and the light on the sea. And this ship is a world. She is freighted with souls, She is freighted with merchandise; proudly she sails With the Labor that stores, and the Will that controls The gold in the ingots, the silk in the bales. From the gardens of Pleasure, where reddens the rose, And the scent of the cedar is faint on the air, Past the harbors of Traffic, sublimely she goes, Man's hopes o'er the world of the waters to bear! Where the cheer from the harbors of Traffic is heard, Where the gardens of Pleasure fade fast on the sight, O'er the rose, o'er the cedar, there passes a bird; 'Tis the Paradise Bird, never known to alight. And that bird, bright and bold as a poet's desire, Roams her own native heavens, the realms of her birth, There she soars like a seraph, she shines like a fire, And her plumage hath never been sullied by earth. And the mariners greet her; there's song on each lip, For the bird of good omen, and joy in each eye, And the ship and the bird, and the bird and the ship, Together go forth over ocean and sky. Fast, fast fades the land! far the rose-gardens flee, And far fleet the harbors. In regions unknown The ship is alone on a desert of sea, And the bird in a desert of sky is alone. In those regions unknown, o'er that desert of air, Down that desert of waters—tremendous in wrath— The storm-wind Euroclydon leaps from his lair, And cleaves through the waves of the ocean, his path. And the bird in the cloud, and the ship on the wave. Overtaken, are beaten about by wild gales, And the mariners all rush their cargo to save, Of the gold in the ingots, the silk in the bales. Lo! a wonder which never before hath been heard For it never before hath been given to sight; On the ship hath descended the Paradise Bird, The Paradise Bird never known to alight! The bird which the mariners bless'd, when each lip Had a song for the omen which gladden'd each eye, The bright bird for shelter hath flown to the ship From the wrath on the sea and the wrath in the sky. But the mariners heed not the bird any more, They are felling the masts—they are furling the sails, Some are working, some weeping, and some wrangling o'er Their gold in the ingots, their silk in the bales. Souls of men are on board; wealth of man in the hold; And the storm-wind Euroclydon sweeps to his prey; And who heeds the bird? "Save the silk and the gold!" And the bird from her shelter the gust sweeps away! Poor Paradise Bird! on her lone flight once more Back again in the wake of the wind she is driven— To be whelm'd in the storm, or above it to soar, And, if rescued from ocean, to vanish in heaven! And the ship rides the waters, and weathers the gales: From the haven she nears the rejoicing is heard. All hands are at work on the ingots, the bales, Save a child, sitting lonely, who misses—the Bird!