The works of Mrs. Hemans With a memoir of her life, by her sister. In seven volumes |
 | I. |
| II. |
| III. |
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| V. |
 | VI. |
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THE WOUNDED EAGLE. |
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| VII. |
 | The works of Mrs. Hemans |  |
THE WOUNDED EAGLE.
Eagle! this is not thy sphere!
Warrior-bird! what seek'st thou here?
Wherefore by the fountain's brink
Doth thy royal pinion sink?
Wherefore on the violet's bed
Lay'st thou thus thy drooping head?
Thou, that hold'st the blast in scorn,
Thou, that wear'st the wings of morn!
Warrior-bird! what seek'st thou here?
Wherefore by the fountain's brink
Doth thy royal pinion sink?
Wherefore on the violet's bed
Lay'st thou thus thy drooping head?
Thou, that hold'st the blast in scorn,
Thou, that wear'st the wings of morn!
Eagle! wilt thou not arise?
Look upon thine own bright skies!
Lift thy glance! the fiery sun
There his pride of place hath won!
And the mountain lark is there,
And sweet sound hath fill'd the air;
Hast thou left that realm on high?
—Oh! it can be but to die!
Look upon thine own bright skies!
Lift thy glance! the fiery sun
There his pride of place hath won!
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And sweet sound hath fill'd the air;
Hast thou left that realm on high?
—Oh! it can be but to die!
Eagle, eagle! thou hast bow'd
From thine empire o'er the cloud!
Thou, that had'st ethereal birth,
Thou hast stoop'd too near the earth,
And the hunter's shaft hath found thee,
And the toils of death have bound thee!
—Wherefore didst thou leave thy place,
Creature of a kingly race?
From thine empire o'er the cloud!
Thou, that had'st ethereal birth,
Thou hast stoop'd too near the earth,
And the hunter's shaft hath found thee,
And the toils of death have bound thee!
—Wherefore didst thou leave thy place,
Creature of a kingly race?
Wert thou weary of thy throne?
Was thy sky's dominion lone?
Chill and lone it well might be,
Yet that mighty wing was free!
Now the chain is o'er it cast,
From thy heart the blood flows fast,
—Woe for gifted souls and high!
Is not such their destiny?
Was thy sky's dominion lone?
Chill and lone it well might be,
Yet that mighty wing was free!
Now the chain is o'er it cast,
From thy heart the blood flows fast,
—Woe for gifted souls and high!
Is not such their destiny?
| The works of Mrs. Hemans | |