吟游诗人的灵魂住在哪里——天空说服他勇敢的翅膀，——折叠在柔软的石竹中，或在雪中，仍然沉睡，在云顶之上，用一种看似甜蜜的无意识，追求他的羽毛，穿过令人困惑的风暴，飞翔，确信所有可能祝福的精神，爱和最崇高的希望使骄傲，他只愿为亲爱的爱抚而奋斗!或者他那巨大的泉水，在神圣的怒火的驱使下，冲击着风暴阴沉的峰顶，弯着宽阔的胸脯，仍然是急躁的形式，在那里，云团在跳跃的火焰中展开!是什么样的愿景赢得了他的灵魂，是什么样的激情使他飞翔，是什么样的征服之梦吸引了他热切的目光!他在斗争中是多么的光辉，他在控制中是多么的唾弃，他是多么肆无忌惮的愤怒，他将蔑视周围崛起并威胁生命的敌人!他向上的飞行是公平的，他穿过分离的空气，他打破障碍的云，他看到了那里的眼睛，风暴王国的中心，嘲笑他，但敢于!现在他抓住了藏在山顶上的奖品，把燃烧的宝石系在额头上;他的翅膀更大胆地飞翔，他的脚步更狂野地优雅，他的光辉，是圣洁的产物;太阳歌唱，星星在他的光辉周围快乐地闪烁;于是他远行，在太阳和星星聚集的中间，他是世界的主宰，这些只不过是臣民;那些用嘲弄的目光注视着它翅膀的人们，现在一定会注视着它，感到惊奇;——不久以后，当它那高高在上的形体远离了嘶嘶声和仇恨，它就会满怀喜悦地注视着它，崇拜它!0 h !在那辆车被征服之前，他们的飞行已经战胜了太阳——他们勇敢的力量和目标已经爬上了云的高度，露出了他们火焰般的胸膛; What lowly toil was done,-- How slow the moments sped,-- How bitter were the pangs that vexed the heart and head! The burden which he bore, The thorns his feet that tore, The cruel wounds he suffered with no moan,-- Alone,--and still alone!-- Denial, which could smile, Beholding, all the while, How salter than the sea were the salt tears he shed; And over all, the curse, Than all of these more worse. Prostrate, before the common way, to bear The feet of hissing things, Whose toil it is to tear, And cramp the glorious creature born to wings! Ah! should he once despair!-- Not lonely, with the sad nymph Solitude, Deep in the cover of the ancient wood, Where the sun leaves him, and the happy dawn, Stealing with blushes over the gray lawn, Stills finds him, all forgetful of the flight Of hours, that passing still from dark to bright, Know not to loiter,--all their progress naught:-- His eye, unconscious of the day, is bright With inward vision; till, as sudden freed, By the superior quest of a proud thought, He darts away with an unmeasured speed; His pinion purpling as he gains the height, Where still, though all obscured from mortal sight, He bathes him in the late smiles of the sun;-- And oh! the glory, as he guides his steed, Flakes from his pinions falling, as they soar To mounts where Eos binds her buskins on And proud Artemis, watching by her well, For one,---sole fortunate of all his race,-- With hand upon his mouth her beagle stays, Lest he should baffle sounds too sweet to lose, That even now are gliding with the dews. How nobly he arrays His robes for flight--his robes, the woven of songs, Borrowed from starry spheres,--with each a muse That, with her harmonies, maintains its dance Celestial, and its circles bright prolongs. Fair ever, but with warrior form and face, He stands before the eye of each young grace Beguiling the sweet passion from her cell, And still subjecting beauty by the glance, Which speaks his own subjection to a spell. The eldest born of rapture, that makes Love, At once submissive and the Conqueror. He conquers but to bring deliverance, And with deliverance light;-- To conquer, he has only to explore,-- And makes a permanent empire, but to spread, Though speeding on with unobserving haste,-- A wing above the waste. A single feather from his pinion shed, A single beam of beauty from his eye, Takes captive of the dim sleeping realm below, Through eyes of truest worshippers, that straight Bring shouts to welcome and bright flowers to wreathe His altars; and, as those, to life from death, Plucked sudden, in their gratitude and faith Deem him a god who wrought the miracle,-- So do they take him to their shrines, and vow Their annual incense of sweet song and smell, For him to whom their happiness they owe. Thus goes he still from desert shore to shore, Wher