Had I the pinions of an eagle's wing

Had I the pinions of an eagle's wing,
In the pure mountain air,
Poised like a glorious and celestial thing,
My soul afar should fling
Its glances there.

Above the midway haunt of clouds and storms,
In the bright summer sun,
Whose tempered influence kindles, as it warms,
O'er beauty's fairest forms
My eye should run.

There all that dims and darkens fades away;
One flow of mellow light,
Fresh as the newly-risen beam of day,
In ever-varying play,
Makes all things bright.

The woods that wave below in tufted green,
The meadows pranked with flowers,
The pebbly brooks that wind in light between,
Glad as their blushing queen
Descends in showers,—

From the clear height of that aerial throne,
Heaved like a prop of heaven,
Towering in solitary pride alone,
Where never storms have blown,
Nor clouds were driven,—

Seen from that airy tower, so far below,
They swim in waving gold,
As when the misty hills at evening glow,
And light in liquid flow
On earth is rolled.

On the far confines of the bending sky,
Where ocean melts in air,
Light curls of snowy vapors hover by,
And azure islands lie
In slumber there.

Like halcyons floating on the silent sea,
With wings of skyey hue
Shading their weary eyes,—so tranquilly
They take, bright heaven! from thee
Thy purest blue.

There as I gaze, I feel a gentle power
Steal through my heart, and lay
Its cares at rest, as when the dewy shower
Freshens at night the flower
That drooped by day.
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