Poems (Hinxman)/The Eagle
THE EAGLE.
The sun rides high in heaven, the cliff-tops whiteHis glory catch, a field of quivering lightShines the broad bay, and round its silver reachRuns like a band of gold the yellow beach.
On the rough peaks that battlement her nest,Pluming her lifted wings and ample breast,The mother-eagle stands, and sunward turnsHer steady eye, which thence replenished burns.
Then launching forth, she hovers, poised aboveThe rock which shelters all that claims her love,Then soars, then, swooping downwards for her prey,A hunter's aim hath caucht her breast midway.
A moment droop her wings, and stretch anew;The stones beneath some life-drops large and fewReceive; then floats she upwards to her nest,The light winds sporting round that wounded breast.
Roused by the sound of her broad pinions, firstHer young ones into happy tumult burst;Her mate turns round his glad expecting eyes;—A look of silent woe to both replies.
All day in helpless sufferance of her fate,She lay; in helpless sorrow watched her mate,Save when by clamour of his nestlings drivenTo meet the mockery of the sunny heaven.
Ab, little dreamt the fisher on the shore,Who through those cloudless skies beheld him soar,Then, like a shooting meteor, earthward dart,How joyless was that wing, how sad that heart!
*****
The sun had travelled round the bay, and threwOn rocks and blushing sea a tender hue:Beside his wife the happy huntsman stood,And gazed on the fair scene in placid mood.
He knew not, in that smiling cliff that caughtThe rosy tints, what lingering anguish wrought,What noble creature lay with gasping beak,And wings spread out with heavings slow and weak.
He knew not, as he watched the sun to rest,How had those dull and filmy eyes distrest,Already lost for aye that dearest sight,The fount, long loved, long sought, of their own light.
Oct. 29, 1848.