A new-fledged eaglet spread his wings To seek for prey; Then flew the huntsman's dart and cut The right wing's sinewy strength away. Headlong he falls into a myrtle grove; There three days long devoured his grief, And writhed in pain Three long, long nights, three days as weary. At length he feels The all-healing power Of Nature's balsam. Forth from the shady bush he creeps, And tries his wing; but, ah! The power to soar is gone! He scarce can lift himself Along the ground In search of food to keep mere life awake; Then rests, deep mourning, On a low rock by the brook; He looks up to the oak tree's top, Far up to heaven, And a tear glistens in his haughty eye. Just then come by a pair of fondling doves, Playfully rustling through the grove. Cooing and toying, they go tripping Over golden sand and brook; And, turning here and there, Their rose-tinged eyes descry The inly-mourning bird. The dove, with friendly curiosity, Flutters to the next bush, and looks With tender sweetness on the wounded king. "Ah, why so sad?" he cooes; "Be of good cheer, my friend! Hast thou not all the means of tranquil bliss Around thee here? Canst thou not meet with swelling breast The last rays of the setting sun On the brook's mossy brink? Canst wander 'mid the dewy flowers, And, from the superfluous wealth Of the wood-bushes, pluck at will Wholesome and delicate food, And at the silvery fountain quench thy thirst? O friend! the spirit of content Gives all that we can know of bliss; And this sweet spirit of content Finds every where its food." "O, wise one!" said the eagle, deeper still Into himself retiring; "O wisdom, thou speakest as a dove!" TO A FRIEND, WITH HEARTSEASE. Content in purple lustre clad, Kingly serene, and golden glad; No demi hues of sad contrition, No pallors of enforced submission; Give me such content as this, And keep a while the rosy bliss. ASPIRATION. LINES WRITTEN IN THE JOURNAL OF HER BROTHER R. F. F.