THE SWALLOW.

By Nathan Haskell Dole.

Of all the birds that swim the air I’d rather be the swallow; And, summer days, when days were fair, I’d follow, follow, follow The hurrying clouds across the sky, And with the singing winds I’d fly.

My eager wings would need no rest If I were but a swallow; I’d scale the highest mountain crest And sound the deepest hollow. No forest could my path-way hide; No ocean plain should be too wide.

I’d find the sources of the Nile, I’d see the Sandwich Islands, And Chimborazo’s granite pile, And Scotland’s rugged Highlands; I’d skim the sands of Timbuctoo; Constantinople’s mosques I’d view.

I’d fly among the isles of Greece, The pride of great Apollo, And circle round the bay of Nice, If I were but a swallow, And view the sunny fields of France, The vineyards merry with the dance.

I’d see my shadow in the Rhine Dart swiftly like an arrow, And catch the breath of eglantine Along the banks of Yarrow; I’d roam the world and never tire, If I could have my heart’s desire!