Classic Poem

No more through the regions of glorious day,
Shall thy wings waft thee proudly--oh proudly away--
No more shall thy scream thrill the spirit that heard,
And saw thee, high mounting, O proud, mighty bird:
For thy form lies with beasts on the filth of the plain,
And it never shall soar from its slumber again.

How strong was thy wing, and how fierce was thine eye--
Which vanquished the storm--and the sun throned on high--
How far was thy flight mid thy path through the blue,
As thou sankest away from our wandering view;--
But thy form rottens now with the beasts of the plain,
And it never shall soar from its slumber again.

We will mourn, we will mourn for thee, proud bird of heaven,
Whose loftiest walks to thy footsteps were given;
For thy form rots with beasts on the reed-sighing plain,
And it never shall soar from that slumber again.