The Slain Eagle

The eye that mark'd thy flight with deadly aim.
Had less of warmth and splendour than thine own;
The form that did thee wrong could never claim
The matchless vigour which thy wing hath shown;
Yet art thou in thy pride of flight o'erthrown;
And the far hills that echoed back thy scream,
As from storm-gathering clouds thou sent'st it down,
Shall see no more thy red-eyed glances stream
For their far summits round, with strong and terrible gleam.
Lone and majestic monarch of the cloud!
No more I see thee on the tall cliff's brow,
When tempests meet, and from their watery shroud
Pour their wild torrents on the plains below,
Lifting thy fearless wing, still free to go,
True in thy aim, undaunted in thy flight,
As seeking still, yet scorning, every foe —
Shrieking the while in consciousness of might,
To thy own realm of high and undisputed light.
Thy thought was not of danger then — thy pride
Left thee no fear. Thou hadst gone forth in storms,
And thy strong pinions had been bravely tried
Against their rush. Vainly their gathering forms
Had striven against thy wing. Such conflict warms
The nobler spirit; and thy joyful shriek
Gave token that the strife itself had charms
For the born warrior of the mountain peak,
He of the giant brood, sharp fang, and bloody beak.
How didst thou then, in very mirth, spread far
Thy pinions' strength! — with freedom that became
Audacious license, with the winds at war,
Striding the yielding clouds that girt thy frame,
And, with a fearless rush that naught could tame,
Defying earth — defying all that mars
The flight of other wings of humbler name;
For thee, the storm had impulse, but no bars
To stop thy upward flight, thou pilgrim of the stars!
Morning above the hills, and from the ocean,
Ne'er leap'd abroad into the fetterless blue
With such a free and unrestrained motion,
Nor shook from her ethereal wing the dew
That else had clogg'd her flight and dimm'd her view,
With such calm effort as 'twas thine to wear —
Bending with sunward course erect and true,
When winds were piping high and lightnings near,
hy day-guide all withdrawn, through fathomless fields of air.
The moral of a chosen race wert thou,
In such proud fight. From out the ranks of men —
The million moilers, with earth-cumber'd brow,
That slink, like coward tigers to their den,
Each to his hiding-place and corner then —
One mighty spirit watch'd thee in that hour,
Nor turn'd his lifted heart to earth again;
Within his soul there sprang a holy power,
And he grew strong to sway, whom tempests made not cower.
Watching, he saw thy rising wing. In vain,
From his superior dwelling, the fierce sun
Shot forth his brazen arrows, to restrain
The audacious pilgrim, who would gaze upon
The secret splendours of his central throne;
Proudly, he saw thee to that presence fly,
And, Eblis-like, unaided and alone,
His dazzling glories seek, his power defy,
Raised to thy god's own face, meanwhile, thy rebel eye.
And thence he drew a hope, a hope to soar,
Even with a wing like thine. His daring glance
Sought, with as bold a vision, to explore
The secret of his own deliverance —
The secret of his wing — and to advance
To sovereign sway like thine — to rule, to rise
Above his race, and nobly to enhance
Their empire as his own — to make the skies,
The extended earth, far seas, and solemn stars, his prize.
He triumphs — and he perishes like thee!
Scales the sun's heights, and mounts above the winds,
Breaks down the gloomy barrier, and is free!
The worm receives his winglet: he unbinds
The captive thought, and in its centre finds
New barriers, and a glory in his gaze;
He mocks, as thou, the sun! — but scaly blinds
Grow o'er his vision, till, beneath the daze,
From his proud height he falls, amid the world's amaze.
And thou, brave bird! thy wing hath pierced the cloud,
The storm had not a battlement for thee;
But, with a spirit fetterless and proud,
Thou hast soar'd on, majestically free,
To worlds, perchance, which men shall never see!
Where is thy spirit now? the wing that bore?
Thou hast lost wing and all, save liberty!
Death only could subdue — and that is o'er:
Alas! the very form that slew thee should deplore!
A proud exemplar hath been lost the proud,
And he who struck thee from thy fearless flight —
Thy noble loneliness, that left the crowd,
To seek, uncurb'd, that singleness of height
Which glory aims at with unswerving sight —
Had learn'd a nobler toil. No longer base
With lowliest comrades, he had given his might,
His life — that had been cast in vilest place —
To raise his hopes and homes — to teach and lift his race.
'T is he should mourn thy fate, for he hath lost
The model of dominion. Not for him
The mighty eminence, the gathering host
That worships, the high glittering pomps that dim.
The bursting homage and the hailing hymn:
He dies — he hath no life, that, to a star,
Rises from dust and sheds a holy gleam
To light the struggling nations from afar,
And show, to kindred souls, where fruits of glory
Exulting now, he clamours o'er his prey;
His secret shaft hath not been idly sped;
He lurk'd within the rocky cleft all day,
Till the proud bird rose sweeping o'er his head,
And thus he slew him! He should weep him dead,
Whom, living, he could love not — weep that he,
The noble lesson taught him, never read —
Exulting o'er the victim much more free
Than, in his lowly soul, he e'er can hope to be.
'T is triumph for the base to overthrow
That which they reach not — the ignoble mind
Loves ever to assail with secret blow
The loftier, purer beings of their kind:
In this their petty villany is blind;
They hate their benefactors — men who keep
Their names from degradation — men design'd
Their guides and guardians: well, if late they weep
The cruel shaft that struck such noble hearts so deep.
Around thy mountain dwelling the winds lie —
Thy wing is gone, thy eyry desolate;
O, who shall teach thy young ones when to fly, —
Who fill the absence of thy watchful mate?
Thou type of genius! bitter is thy fate,
A boor has sent the shaft that leaves them lone,
Thy clustering fellows, guardians of thy state —
Shaft from the reedy fen whence thou hast flown,
A.nd feather from the bird thy own wing hath struck down!