Rent by our beating wings the cloud-waves swung
In eddies round us, and our leader’s roar
Smote peal on peal, and from their bases flung
The rocks that towered along the trembling shore.
A Thunder-Bird—alas, my chosen friend,
But even so a warrior’s life should end,—
A Thunder-Bird was stricken; his bright beak,
Cleaving the tumult like a lightning streak,
Smote with a fiery hiss the watery plain;
His upturned breast, where gleamed one fleck of red,