62
His beaming eyes are bright with wondrous rays,
A fiery lustre round his aspect plays.
His crest a connate star to rear is seen,
The darkness piercing with its light serene.
Tyre o'er his limbs it's purple glory flings,
More swift than Zephyrs are his airy wings;
Where azure edgings feathery flowers infold,
And each gay plume is chequer'd o'er with gold.
Not his the birth to common natures known,
Parent and offspring to himself alone;
His frame to no progenitor is due,
Form'd from decay by fruitful death anew,
For life, which—buried oft—he still from burial drew.
For when a thousand Summers have been past,
A thousand Winters have the skies o'ercast,
As many Springs restored the grateful shade,
Which withering Autumn had in ruin laid—
Then, worn with age, by weight of years subdued,
He sinks a prey to slow decrepitude.
As some tall pine, on bleak Caucasian brow,
Compell'd at length its weary head to bow,
Breaks piecemeal up, till scarce a limb remain,
Torn by the blast, and rotted by the rain.
