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Poem	("Moune, écureuil.") {xx.} Squirrel, mount yon oak so high, To its twig that next the sky Bends and trembles as a flower! Strain, O stork, thy pinion well,— From thy nest 'neath old church-bell, Mount to yon tall citadel, And its tallest donjon tower! To your mountain, eagle old, Mount, whose brow so white and cold, Kisses the last ray of even! And, O thou that lov'st to mark Morn's first sunbeam pierce the dark, Mount, O mount, thou joyous lark— Joyous lark, O mount to heaven! And now say, from topmost bough, Towering shaft, and peak of snow, And heaven's arch—O, can you see One white plume that like a star, Streams along the plain afar, And a steed that from the war Bears my lover back to me? JOHN L. O'SULLIVAN.
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