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Song of the Eagle

by Frances Fuller Victor

I'm the child of light, yet the darkest night
No terrors hath for me,
For the storm I ride, in a monarch's pride,
Or skim o'er the heaving sea.
When lowering clouds, like sable shrouds,
Wrap the earth in deepest gloom,
I join the surge in the funeral dirge,
O'er the sailor's watery tomb.

And I love to rest on the summit crest
Of the proudest mountain's height,
While the clouds below lie like wreaths of snow,
Yielding homage to my might.
In my pride I go where eternal snow
Has crested the mountain's brow,
And laugh at the storm, and the blackened form
Of the threatening clouds below.

Mid the lightning's flash, and the thunder's crash,
I scream for my own delight,
For I love to hear, so loud and clear,
My voice ringing out in the night.
Not so proud a one ever gazed on the sun
As the eagle bird, I trow,
Stooping to rest on the towering crest
Of the highest mountain's brow.

In the pride of a king, with folded wing,
I gaze on ruined Tyre;
By Heaven's decree it was given to me,
And no power to give is higher.
From land or sea God hath chosen me,
And a favored bird am I—
The gifted of Heaven, to whom power is given
Over earth, and sea, and sky.

I care not for earth, though I had my birth
On the proudest height she owns;
And I'd rather ride o'er old ocean's tide
Than sit on her rocky thrones.
But I love the sun, and could I have won
A home in its realms of light.
With a laugh of scorn from this earth I'd turn.
And soar to my home in delight.

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