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Poem	IN search of prey once raised his pinions An eaglet; A huntsman's arrow came, and reft His right wing of all motive power. Headlong he fell into a myrtle grove, For three long days on anguish fed, In torment writhed Throughout three long, three weary nights; And then was cured, Thanks to all-healing Nature's Soft, omnipresent balm. He crept away from out the copse, And stretch'd his wing--alas! Lost is all power of flight-- He scarce can lift himself From off the ground To catch some mean, unworthy prey, And rests, deep-sorrowing, On the low rock beside the stream. Up to the oak he looks, Looks up to heaven, While in his noble eye there gleams a tear. Then, rustling through the myrtle boughs, behold, There comes a wanton pair of doves, Who settle down, and, nodding, strut O'er the gold sands beside the stream, And gradually approach; Their red-tinged eyes, so full of love, Soon see the inward-sorrowing one. The male, inquisitively social, leaps On the next bush, and looks Upon him kindly and complacently. "Thou sorrowest," murmurs he: "Be of good cheer, my friend! All that is needed for calm happiness Hast thou not here? Hast thou not pleasure in the golden bough That shields thee from the day's fierce glow? Canst thou not raise thy breast to catch, On the soft moss beside the brook, The sun's last rays at even? Here thou mayst wander through the flowers' fresh dew, Pluck from the overflow The forest-trees provide, Thy choicest food,--mayst quench Thy light thirst at the silvery spring. Oh friend, true happiness Lies in contentedness, And that contentedness Finds everywhere enough." "Oh, wise one!" said the eagle, while he sank In deep and ever deep'ning thought-- "Oh Wisdom! like a dove thou speakest!" 1774.*
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