| |
| THERE’S a fierce gray bird—with a sharpen’d beak; | |
| With an angry eye, and a startling shriek: | |
| That nurses her brood where the cliff-flowers blow, | |
| On the precipice-top—in perpetual snow— | |
| Where the fountains are mute, or in secrecy flow— | 5 |
| That sits—where the air is shrill and bleak, | |
| On the splinter’d point of a shiver’d peak— | |
| Where the weeds lie close—and the grass sings sharp, | |
| To a comfortless tune—like a wintry harp— | |
| Bald-headed and stripp’d!—like a vulture torn | 10 |
| In wind and strife!—with her feathers worn, | |
| And ruffled and stain’d—while scattering—bright, | |
| Round her serpent-neck—that is writhing, bare— | |
| Is a crimson collar of gleaming hair!— | |
| Like the crest of a warrior thinn’d in the fight, | 15 |
| And shorn—and bristling—see her! where | |
| She sits in the glow of the sun-bright air! | |
| With wing half-poised—and talons bleeding— | |
| And kindling eye—as if her prey | |
| Had—suddenly—been snatch’d away— | 20 |
| While she was tearing it, and feeding! | |
| A Bird that is first to worship the sun, | |
| When he gallops in flame—’t ill the cloud tides run | |
| In billows of fire—as his course is done: | |
| Above where the fountain is gushing in light; | 25 |
| Above where the torrent is forth in its might— | |
| Like an imprison’d blaze that is bursting from night! | |
| Or a lion that springs—with a roar—from his lair! | |
| Bounding off—all in foam—from the echoing height— | |
| Like a rank of young war-horses—terribly bright, | 30 |
| Their manes all erect!—and their hoofs in the air! | |
| The earth shaking under them—trumpets on high— | |
| And banners unfurling away in the sky— | |
| With the neighing of steeds! and the streaming of hair | |
| Above where the silvery flashing is seen— | 35 |
| The striping of waters, that skip o’er the green, | |
| And soft, spongy moss, where the fairies have been, | |
| Bending lovely and bright in the young Morning’s eye | |
| Like ribands of flame—or the bow of the sky: | |
| Above that dark torrent—above the bright stream— | 40 |
| The gay ruddy fount, with the changeable gleam, | |
| Where the lustre of heaven eternally plays— | |
| The voice may be heard—of the thunderer’s bird, | |
| Calling out to her god in a clear, wild scream, | |
| As she mounts to his throne, and unfolds in his beam; | 45 |
| While her young are laid out in his rich red blaze; | |
| And their winglets are fledged in his hottest rays: | |
| Proud bird of the cliff! where the barren-yew springs— | |
| Where the sunshine stays—and the wind-harp sings, | |
| Where the heralds of battle sit—pluming their wings— | 50 |
| A scream! she ’s awake!—over hill-top and flood, | |
| A crimson light runs!—like the gushing of blood— | |
| Over valley and rock!—over mountain and wood | |
| That bird is abroad—in the van of her brood! * * * * * | |
* * * The Bird that laves| Her sounding pinions in the sun’s first gush— | 55 |
| Drinks his meridian blaze and sunset flush: | |
| Worships her idol in his fiercest hour: | |
| Bathes her full bosom in his hottest shower: | |
| Sits amid stirring stars, and bends her beak, | |
| Like the slipp’d falcon—when her piercing shriek | 60 |
| Tells that she stoops upon her cleaving wing, | |
| To drink anew some victim’s clear-red spring. | |
| That monarch Bird! that slumbers in the night | |
| Upon the lofty air-peak’s utmost height: | |
| Or sleeps upon the wing—amid the ray | 65 |
| Of steady—cloudless—everlasting day! | |
| Rides with the Thunderer in his blazing march: | |
| And bears his lightnings o’er yon boundless arch. | |
| Soars wheeling through the storm, and screams away | |
| Where the young pinions of the morning play. | 70 |
| |
