The bluff was decked with great bunches of a scarlet variety of the milkweed, like cut coral, and all starred with a mysterious-looking dark flower, whose cup rose lonely on a tall stem.  This had, for two or three days, disputed the ground with the lupine and phlox.  My companions disliked, I liked it.

Here I thought of, or rather saw, what the Greek expresses under the form of Jove’s darling, Ganymede, and the following stanzas took form.

GANYMEDE TO HIS EAGLE,

SUGGESTED BY A WORK OF THORWALDSEN’S.

Composed on the height called the Eagle’s Nest, Oregon, Rock River,
July 4th, 1843.

Upon the rocky mountain stood the boy,
A goblet of pure water in his hand,
His face and form spoke him one made for joy,
A willing servant to sweet love’s command,
But a strange pain was written on his brow,
And thrilled throughout his silver accents now—­

“My bird,” he cries, “my destined brother friend,
O whither fleets to-day thy wayward flight? 
Hast thou forgotten that I here attend,
From the full noon until this sad twilight? 
A hundred times, at least, from the clear spring,
Since the full noon o’er hill and valley glowed,
I’ve filled the vase which our Olympian king
Upon my care for thy sole use bestowed;
That at the moment when thou should’st descend,
A pure refreshment might thy thirst attend.

  Hast thou forgotten earth, forgotten me,
    Thy fellow bondsman in a royal cause,
  Who, from the sadness of infinity,
    Only with thee can know that peaceful pause
  In which we catch the flowing strain of love,
  Which binds our dim fates to the throne of Jove?

  Before I saw thee, I was like the May,
    Longing for summer that must mar its bloom,
  Or like the morning star that calls the day,
    Whose glories to its promise are the tomb;
  And as the eager fountain rises higher
    To throw itself more strongly back to earth,
  Still, as more sweet and full rose my desire,
    More fondly it reverted to its birth,
  For, what the rosebud seeks tells not the rose,
  The meaning foretold by the boy the man cannot disclose.

  I was all Spring, for in my being dwelt
    Eternal youth, where flowers are the fruit,
  Full feeling was the thought of what was felt,
    Its music was the meaning of the lute;
  But heaven and earth such life will still deny,
  For earth, divorced from heaven, still asks the question Why?

  Upon the highest mountains my young feet
    Ached, that no pinions from their lightness grew,
  My starlike eyes the stars would fondly greet,
    Yet win no greeting from the circling blue;
  Fair, self-subsistent each in its own sphere,
    They had no care that there was none for me;
  Alike to them that I was far or near,
    Alike to them, time and eternity.