Classic Poem

There's a fierce gray Bird, with a bending beak,
With a glittering eye and a piercing shriek,
That nurses her brood where the cliff-flowers blow
On the precipice top — in perpetual snow —
Where the fountains are mute or in secrecy flow:
A BIRD that is first to worship the sun,
When he gallops in light — till the cloud-tides run
In billows of fire as his course is done:
Above where the torrent is forth in its might —
Above where the fountain is gushing in light —
Above where the silvery flashing is seen
Of streamlets that bend o'er the rich mossy green,
Emblazed with the tint of the young morning's eye —
Like ribbons of flame — or the bow of the sky:
Above that dark torrent — above that bright stream,
Her voice may be heard with its clear wild scream,
As she chants to her God and unfolds in his beam;
While her young are all laid in his rich red blaze,
And their winglets are fledged in his hottest rays:
Proud Bird of the Cliff! where the barren yew springs:
Where the sunshine stays, and the wind-harp sings;
And the heralds of battle are pluming their wings:
That Bird is abroad over hill-top and flood —
Over valley and rock, over mountain and wood —
Sublimely she sails with her storm-cleaving brood!