If writing Journals were my task,

From cottagers to kings—

A little book I'd only ask,

And fill it full of wings!

Each pair should represent a day:

On some the sun should rise,

While others bent their mournful way

Through cold and cloudy skies.

And here I would the light'ning bring

With threatening, forked glare;

And there the hallowed rainbow fling

Across the troubled air.

Some faint and wearily should glide

Their broken flight along—

While some high in the air should ride

Dilated, bold, and strong.

Some agitated and adrift,

Against their will should rove;

Some, steering forward, sure and swift,

Should scarcely seem to move—

While others, happiest of their kind!

Should in the ether soar,

As if no care would ever find,

No sorrow reach them more;

When soon an arrow from below

Should wound them in their flight,

And many a crimson drop should flow

Before they fell in sight.

The rapid and abrupt descent,

The stain'd and ruffled plume,

Would seem as if they were not meant

Their ardour to resume.

But soon their beauty and their force

Sweet hours of rest renew;

Full soon their light, their varied course

Careering they pursue.

Alternately to rise and fall,

Or float along the day—

And this is Fortune—This is all

I would vouchsafe to say!