The Rhode Island American, And General Advertiser

THE LINNET TO THE EAGLE.
" Hoard hath hate, and climbing tickleness."
CHAUCER.
Son of the Winds! who bend'st thy flight
Above the mists and clouds of heaven ;
And bath'st thy wing in purest light,
While far beneath the storms are driven :
Oh! tempt me not, with feeble wing,
To mount a while aloft with thee,
And leave these scenes, and every thing.
(Though humble) that is dear to me.
Safer to range my native vale,
The flowery mead and peaceful grove,
Than sweep along the mountain gale,
Or through the boundless ether rove.
Though I can never meet, like thee,
The sun-beam, with unwavering eye,
Yet just as sweet and dear to me
The smiling earth and cloudless sky.
Thou dwellest on the mountain's brow,
Where nothing comes of mortal birth,
And seldom deign'st to stoop below,
And mingle with the things of earth.
But I can rear my happier home,
By perfum'd bower or silver stream,
Where nature's loveliest flowers bloom,
In cheering shower and gladdening beam :
Where life, and love, and joy abound,
And faithful hearts responsive beat;
Where summer gales waft fragrance round,
And music's artless voice is sweet.
Here I can wave exulting wing
O'er field and plain, to fear unknown,
And every trembling note I sing.
Be breathed to partial ear alone.
This peaceful lot, then, still be mine,
From envy and ambition free;
I " every loftier wish resign,"
And leave the prouder range to thee.
*" Mutato nomine."
Use of the Cocoa-Nut Tree.