THE OOLOGIST 



The Captive Eagle. 

 A Ballad. 

 By Charles West Thompson. 

 An Eagle sat on the stormy peak 



Of a mountain's rugged crag, 

 Where the winds of the winter whis- 

 tled bleak 

 And uttered their boisterous brag. 



His head was as bald as the cliff where 

 he sat, 

 And his neck as white as its snow, 

 And his eye was like that of the moun- 

 tain cat, 

 When he glares on his prey below. 



On the scathed limb of an ancient oak. 

 He had taken his lofty stand. 



And thence he looked down where 

 wreaths of smoke 

 Gave tokens of cultured land. 



And away and away did his gaze ex- 

 tend 

 O'er the ocean's waters blue. 

 And he heard the roar on the distant 

 shore 

 Where the snow-white sea gulls flew. 



He had perched his nest on that moun- 

 tain's brow, 

 In the eye of the glorious sun. 

 And he looked on the face of the day- 

 king now. 

 As for many long years he had 

 done. 



He had seen his eaglets thence go 



forth 



To the chase of the hawk on the sea, 



He had sailed on the icy-winged blast 



of the North, 



And screamed as he rode it with glee. 



Long years had he dwelt on that 



mountain height. 



And sailed o'er that ocean's gloom, 



When the morning was bright, or the 



blackness of night 



Made darker the tempest's plume. 



Long years had he stood by that roar- 

 ing flood. 

 And that rock was his kingdom's 

 throne. 

 By the storm-rent oak his decree he 

 spoke. 

 And his will was his law alone. 



Even now he sat on that oak so bear. 

 Majestic and proud and free. 



The emblem at once, and the glorious 

 heir 

 Of nature's liberty. 



He sat with his noble wings outspread 

 For a flight o'er the sunny land. 



And he launched thro' the air like an 

 arrow that's sped 

 From a practised archer's hand. 



Away deep down to the scene below 



He flew on fearless wing, 

 And he paused where a waterfall turn- 

 ed into snow 



The stream of a woodland spring. 



Ah! bird of royalty! sad for thee 

 To have left thy mountain height. 



Where thy way was unwatched, and 

 thy wing was free. 

 And none to arrest thy flight. 



For the hunter has marked thy down- 

 ward course, 

 And fixed on thee his eye — 

 And has lifted his gun to the noon-day 

 sun. 

 And said that thou shalt die. 



A flash — a roar — the Eagle rose 



From the tree where his perch had 

 been, — 

 And the echo that woke from the 

 forest of oak. 

 Shouted loud as to chide the sin. 



He soared away on his upward flight, 

 As he uttered a piercing cry. 



But suddenly dropped, like the meteor 

 of night 

 That falls in a summer sky. 



