Psyche and the Eagle

But sovran Jove's rapacious Bird, the regal
High percher on the lightning, the great eagle,
Drove down with rushing wings; and, — thinking how,
By Cupid's help, he bore from Ida's brow
A cup-boy for his master, — he inclined
To yield, in just return, an influence kind;
The god being honoured in his lady's woe.
And thus the Bird wheeled downward from the track,
Gods follow gods in, to the level low
Of that poor face of Psyche left in wrack.
— "Now fie, thou simple girl!" the Bird began;
"For if thou think to steal and carry back
A drop of holiest stream that ever ran,
No simpler thought, methinks, were found in man.
What! know'st thou not these Stygian waters be
Most holy, even to Jove? that as, on earth,
Men swear by gods, and by the thunder's worth,
Even so the heavenly gods do utter forth
Their oaths by Styx's flowing majesty?
And yet, one little urnful, I agree
To grant thy need!" Whereat, all hastily,
He takes it, fills it from the willing wave,
And bears it in his beak, incarnadined
By the last Titan-prey he screamed to have;
And, striking calmly out, against the wind,
Vast wings on each side, — there, where Psyche stands,
He drops the urn down in her lifted hands.