Oh , 'twas bitter cold
As our steam-boat roll'd
Down the pathway old
Of the deep Garonne, —
And the peasant lank,
While his sabot sank
In the snow-clad bank,
Saw it roll on, on.

And he hied him home
TOhis toit de chaume;
And for those who roam
On the broad bleak flood
Cared he? Not a thought;
For his beldame brought
His wine-flask fraught
With the grape's red blood.

And the wood-block blaze
Fed his vacant gaze
As we trod the maze
Of the river down.
Soon we left behind
On the frozen wind
All farther mind
Of that vacant clown.

But there came anon,
As we journey'd on
Down the deep Garonne,
An acquaintancy,
Which we deem'd, I count,
Of more high amount,
For it oped the fount
Of sweet sympathy.

'Twas a stranger drest
In a downy vest,
'Twas a wee Red-breast,
(Not an " Albatross , " )
But a wanderer meek,
Who fain would seek
O'er the bosom bleak
Of that flood to cross.

And we watch'd him oft
As he soar'd aloft
On his pinions soft,
Poor wee weak thing,
And we soon could mark
That he sought our bark,
As a resting ark
For his weary wing.

But the bark, fire-fed,
On her pathway sped,
And shot far a-head
Of the tiny bird,
And quicker in the van
Her swift wheels ran,
As the quickening fan
Of his winglets stirr'd.

Vain, vain pursuit!
Toil without fruit!
For his forked foot
Shall not anchor there,
Tho' the boat meanwhile
Down the stream beguile
For a bootless mile
The poor child of air!

And 'twas plain at last
He was flagging fast,
That his hour had past
In that effort vain;
Far from either bank,
Sans a saving plank,
Slow, slow he sank,
Nor uprose again.

And the cheerless wave
Just one ripple gave
As it oped him a grave
In its bosom cold,
And he sank alone,
With a feeble moan,
In that deep Garonne,
And then all was told.

But our pilot grey
Wiped a tear away;
In the broad Biscaye
He had lost his boy!
That sight brought back
On its furrow'd track
The remember'd wreck
Of long perish'd joy!

And the tear half hid
In soft Beauty's lid
Stole forth unbid
For that red-breast bird; —
And the feeling crept, —
For a Warrior wept;
And the silence kept
Found no fitting word.

But I mused alone,
For I thought of one
Whom I well had known
In my earlier days,
Of a gentle mind,
Of a soul refined,
Of deserts design'd
For the Palm of Praise.

And well would it seem
That o'er Life's dark stream,
Easy task for Him
In his flight of Fame,
Was the Skyward Path
O'er the billow's wrath,
That for Genius hath
Ever been the same.

And I saw him soar
From the morning shore,
While his fresh wings bore
Him athwart the tide.
Soon with powers unspent
As he forward went,
His wings he had bent
On the sought-for side.

But while thus he flew,
Lo! a vision new
Caught his wayward view
With a semblance fair,
And that new-found wooer
Could, alas! allure
From his pathway sure
The bright child of air.

For he turn'd aside,
And adown the tide
For a brief hour plied
His yet unspent force.
And to gain that goal
Gave the powers of soul
Which, unwasted, whole,
Had achieved his course.

A bright Spirit, young,
Unwept, unsung,
Sank thus among
The drifts of the stream;
Not a record left, —
Of renown bereft,
By thy cruel theft,
O DELUSIVE DREAM .

Thus sadly I thought
As that bird unsought
The remembrance brought
Of thy bright day;
And I penn'd full soon
This Dirge, while the moon
On the broad Garonne
Shed a wintry ray.