by W. H. Rhodes
[Decoration]
XXVII.
_THE AVITOR._
Hurrah for the wings that never tire-- For the nerves that never quail; For the heart that beats in a bosom of fire-- For the lungs whose cast-iron lobes respire Where the eagle's breath would fail!
As the genii bore Aladdin away, In search of his palace fair, On his magical wings to the land of Cathay, So here I will spread out my pinions to-day On the cloud-borne billows of air.
Up! up! to its home on the mountain crag, Where the condor builds its nest, I mount far fleeter than hunted stag, I float far higher than Switzer flag-- Hurrah for the lightning's guest!
Away, over steeple and cross and tower-- Away, over river and sea; I spurn at my feet the tempests that lower, Like minions base of a vanquished power, And mutter their thunders at me!
Diablo frowns, as above him I pass, Still loftier heights to attain; Calaveras' groves are but blades of grass-- Yosemite's sentinel peaks a mass Of ant-hills dotting a plain!
Sierra Nevada's shroud of snow, And Utah's desert of sand, Shall never again turn backward the flow Of that human tide which may come and go To the vales of the sunset land!
Wherever the coy earth veils her face With tresses of forest hair; Where polar pallors her blushes efface, Or tropical blooms lend her beauty and grace-- I can flutter my plumage there!
Where the Amazon rolls through a mystical land-- Where Chiapas buried her dead-- Where Central Australian deserts expand-- Where Africa seethes in saharas of sand-- Even there shall my pinions spread!
No longer shall earth with her secrets beguile, For I, with undazzled eyes, Will trace to their sources the Niger and Nile, And stand without dread on the boreal isle, The Colon of the skies!
Then hurrah for the wings that never tire-- For the sinews that never quail; For the heart that throbs in a bosom of fire-- For the lungs whose cast-iron lobes respire When the eagle's breath would fail!