THE LANGUAGE OF BIRDS. 
321 
Bird of the cliffs, thy noble form 
Might well be thought almost divine ; 
Born for the thunder and the storm, 
The mountain and the rock are thine ; 
And there, where never foot has been, 
Thy eyry is sublimely hung. 
Where lowering skies their wrath begin, 
And loudest lullabies are sung. 
By the fierce spirit of the blast, 
When, his snow-mantle o'er him cast. 
He sweeps across the mountain top. 
With a dark fury nought can stop, 
And wings his wild, unearthly way, 
Far through the clouded realms of day. 
Bird of the sun ! to thee, — to thee 
The earliest tints of dawn are known ; 
And 'tis thy proud delight to see 
The monarch mount his gorgeous throne ; 
Throwing the crimson drapery by, 
That half impedes his glorious way, 
And mounting up the radiant sky, 
Ee'n what he is — the king of day ! 
