APPENDIX 233 



When the night storm gathers dim and dark, 



With a shrill and boding scream, 

 Thou rushest by the foundering bark, 



Quick as a passing dream. 



Thou art perched aloft on the beetling crag, 



And the waves are white below, 

 And on, with a haste that can not lag, 



They rush in an endless flow. 

 Again thou hast plumed thy wing for flight 



To lands beyond the sea, 

 And away, like a spirit wreathed in light, 



Thou hurriest, wild and free. 



Lord of the boundless realm of air, 



In thy imperial name, 

 The hearts of the bold and ardent dare 



The dangerous path of fame. 

 Beneath the shade of thy golden wings 



The Roman legions bore, 

 From the river of Egypt's cloudy springs, 



Their pride to the polar shore. 



For thee they fought, for thee they fell, 



And their oath was on thee laid; 

 To thee the clarions raised their swell, 



And the dying warrior prayed. 

 Thou wert, through an age of death and fears, 



The image of pride and power, 

 Till the gathered rage of a thousand years 



Burst forth in one awful hour. 



