Wing-Spent

A feverish noon had steeped the earth 
     In langour, till a gentle breeze
     Came stealing from th' Hesperides, 
With balms that told their Eden birth;
When gliding o'er the rippled bay, 
     In shadow of an emerald isle, 
     My little shallop seemed, awhile, 
In mystic depths of air to sway.

And as I dreamed my lotus dream, 
     A panting ringdove from the West 
     Came down and nestled in my breast, 
Out-drifting on the ocean-stream.
Day died, and lingering died the breeze;
     Serene the heavens, serene the deep;
     My dreaming shallop moved in sleep
Between their infinite silences.

The stars looked forth from either dome, 
     The nether and the upper blue;
     Nearer the meteor fireflies flew;
And starry lamps from many a home
Shot level shafts of gold to break
     The shadows of our twilight way;
     And every oarstroke's flashing spray
Burned starry in our rustling wake!

Sweet Lyra from her golden throne
     Sent visible melodies along
     Our rippled path, and red, and strong, 
Arcturus for our beacon shone.
The steady pole-star hung arear, 
     And wavered fitfully below;
     The fixed affections flutter so,
But keep aloft their golden sphere.

O Dove! that came into my heart—
     Wing'd starbeam 'mid the lights of heaven 
     And heavenly lamps of home, that even' —
Not lightly thence shalt thou depart.
White soul! thou may'st not fly from me;
     Thy folded wing, unseen, shall rest, 
     Lifelong, upon my sheltering breast, 
And my right hand shall cover thee.

The winds that winnow all the seas,
     No more shall vex thy snowy plumes:
     But every twinkle that illumes
My path, shall waft thee golden ease.
Rest, weary one! for that long flight 
     That waits thee o'er the unchartered deep;
     Who giveth His beloved sleep, 
He shall renew thy strength aright!