POETRY.
WINGS.
Up from the earth he speeds on rushing wings, Conquering regions, of uncharted air;
Nor as a timid Daedalus he springs From height to dizzy height to do and dare; To seek the braggart foeman in his cloudy lair!
As bold, as brave, and buoyant he of heart; His spirit light as evening's gauzy cloud, He strides the wind, and fearless cleaves apart The banking mists that Hell wonld make his shroud, For lo! the preying falcon stoops, exnnIting, loud!
He hears the stinging hiss of deadly hail, And devil-hammer of down-levelled gun: Nor at the test does his high spirit quail, Nor thought possess him that his race is ran,
Great heart that sudden finds the foeman ten to one!
Bloody and shattered drops the skilful hand, And effort is an effort, now, at last His weapon rests inert as the fell hand Spit fire and fury, closing on him fast, And he, so oft a victor, knows his day is past!
Then dives one, firing, by him like a flash,
His quickened senses urge the swift pursuit,
And down with sudden meteoric dash, He strikes' the striker; and as ono they shoot Whirling, entwined, to earth, by what a fearfIll route!
But death came quick to cut the bond in twain. . . .
Still lies his body on the biasing pyre.
Dear lad that flew for neither praise nor gain!
Lo! The freed spirit, purged of ill desire, Has soared to God on wings that pass unhurt through fire!
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