Bird of the broad and sweeping wing, Thy home is high in heaven, Where wide the storms their banners fling, And the tempest clouds are driven.
James Gates Percival, To the Eagle.
Theirs is no vulgar sepulchre--green sodsAre all their monument, and yet it tellsA nobler history than pillared pilesOr the eternal pyramids.James Gates Percival
On thy fair bosom, silver lake,The wild swan spreads his snowy sail,And round his breast the ripples breakAs down he bears before the gale.James Gates Percival
The water is calm and still below,For the winds and waves are absent there,And the sands are bright as the stars that glowIn the motionless fields of upper air.James Gates Percival
Hail to the land whereon we tread,Our fondest boast!The sepulchres of mighty dead,The truest hearts that ever bled,Who sleep on glory’s brightest bed,A fearless host:No slave is here:—our unchained feet,Walk freely as the waves that beatOur coast.James Gates Percival