Poems (Sharpless)/The Wounded Eagle

by Frances M. Sharpless

THE WOUNDED EAGLE

I found an eagle, wounded to the death,
 Perched on a mountain crag, barren and bare;
So silent all, the foaming stream beneath
 Alone disturbed the cool pine-scented air.
 There was he set to die in proud despair.

No restless beating with impatient wings
 Against the fate, inevitable, grim,
Nor yet the sullen sloth of meaner things,
 Drooped the wide wing, and made the bold eye dim;
 Death came apace but could not conquer him.

Then drew I near, and, with out-reaching arms,
 Half fearful, yet all loving, him I drew
To my warm heart, that beat with vague alarms
 As the wild helpless creature pressed thereto,
 Nestling adown as small birds wont to do.

So stayed he till he died, without a sign,
 Disdaining pain, but crouching ever near,
Gazing with dimming eyes still into mine,
 As tho' my human sympathy were dear,
 And, tho' all vain, he loved my tender care.

So, should a barbed dart wound thee, dearest one,
 Wouldst not thou stoop thy proud ambitious wing,
And seek anew the ties thou hast o'erflown,
 Needing my loving hand to soothe the sting?—
 For steady love the deepest peace doth bring.