# Ganymede to His Eagle

From Summer on the Lakes.
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.
* But, from the violet of lower air,
* Sometimes an answer to my wishing came,
* Those lightning births mv nature seemed to share,
* They told the secrets of its fiery frame,
* The sudden messengers of hate and love,
* The thunderbolts that arm the hand of Jove,
* And strike sometimes the sacred spire, and strike the sacred grove.
* Come in a moment, in a moment gone,
* They answered me, then left me still more lone,
* They told me that the thought which ruled the world,
* As yet no sail upon its course had furled,
* That the creation was but just begun,
* New leaves still leaving from the primal one,
* But spoke not of the goal to which my rapid wheels would run.
* Still, still my eyes, though tearfully, I strained
* To the far future which my heart contained,
* And no dull doubt my proper hope profaned.
* At last, O bliss, thy living form I spied,
* Then a mere speck upon a distant sky,
* Yet my keen glance discerned its noble pride,
* And the full answer, of that sun-filled eye;
* I knew it was the wing that must upbear
* My earthlier form into the realms of air.
* Thou knowest how we gained that beauteous height,
* Where dwells the monarch of the sons of light,
* Thou knowest he declared us two to be
* The chosen servants of his ministry,
* Thou as his messenger, a sacred sign
* Of conquest, or with omen more benign,
* To give its due weight to the righteous cause,
* To express the verdict of Olympian laws.
* And I to wait upon the lonely spring,
* Which slakes the thirst of bards to whom 'tis given
* The destined dues of hopes divine to sing,
* And weave the needed chain to bind to heaven.
* Only from such could be obtained a draught
* For him who in his early home from Jove's own cup has quaffed.
* To wait, to wait, but not to wait too long,
* Till heavy grows the burthen of a song;
* O bird! too long hast thou been gone to-day,
* My feet are weary of their frequent way,
* The spell that opes the spring my tongue no more can say.
* If soon thou com'st not, night will fall around,
* My head with a sad slumber will be bound,
* And the pure draught be spilt upon the ground.
* Remember that I am not yet divine,
* Long years of service to the fatal Nine
* Are yet to make a Delphian vigor mine.
* O, make them not too hard, thou bird of Jove,
* Answer the stripling's hope, confirm his love,
* Receive the service in which he delights,
* And bear him often to the serene heights,
* Where hands that were so prompt in serving thee,
* Shall be allowed the highest minstry,
* And Rapture live with bright Fidelity.