o



Whither, oh! whither wilt thou wing thy way? 
What solemn region first upon thy sight 
Shall break, unveiled for terror or delight? 
What hosts, magnificent in dread array, 
My spirit! when thy prison-house of clay 
After long strife is rent? Fond, fruitless quest! 
The unfledged bird, within his narrow nest, 
Sees but a few green branches oer him play, 
And through their parting leaves, by fits revealed, 
A glimpse of summer sky; nor knows the field 
Wherein his dormant powers must yet be tried. 
Thou art that bird!--of what beyond thee lies 
Far in the untracked immeasurable skies 
Knowing but this--that thou shalt find thy guide! 





o