TO THE FLYING-FISH.

When I have seen thy snow-white wing

From the blue wave at evening spring,

And show those scales of silvery white,

So gayly to the eye of light,

As if thy frame were formed to rise,

And live amid the glorious skies;

Oh! it has made me proudly feel,

How like thy wing's impatient zeal

Is the pure soul, that rests not, pent

Within this world's gross element,

But takes the wing that God has given,

And rises into light and heaven!

But, when I see that wing, so bright,

Grow languid with a moment's flight,

Attempt the paths of air in vain,

And sink into the waves again;

Alas! the flattering pride is o'er;

Like thee, awhile, the soul may soar,

But erring man must blush to think,

Like thee, again, the soul may sink.

Oh Virtue! when thy clime I seek,

Let not my spirit's flight be weak;

Let me not, like this feeble thing,

With brine still dropping from its wing,

Just sparkle in the solar glow

And plunge again to depths below;

But, when I leave the grosser throng

With whom my soul hath dwelt so long,

Let me, in that aspiring day,

Cast every lingering stain away,

And, panting for thy purer air,

Fly up at once and fix me there.