them.  Neither were the children sad or dull, who lived so familiarly with the deer and the birds, and swam that clear wave in the shadow of the Seven Sisters.  The whole scene suggested to me a Greek splendor, a Greek sweetness, and I can believe that an Indian brave, accustomed to ramble in such paths, and be bathed by such sunbeams, might be mistaken for Apollo, as Apollo was for him by West.  Two of the boldest bluffs are called the Deer’s Walk, (not because deer do not walk there,) and the Eagle’s Nest.  The latter I visited one glorious morning; it was that of the fourth of July, and certainly I think I had never felt so happy that I was born in America.  Woe to all country folks that never saw this spot, never swept an enraptured gaze over the prospect that stretched beneath.  I do believe Rome and Florence are suburbs compared to this capital of Nature’s art.

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 fall 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 shouldst 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 that the boy foretold the man cannot disclose.