For thy form lies with beasts on the filth of the plain,
And it never shall soar from its slumber again.
How strong was thy wing, and how fierce was thine eye—
Which vanquished the storm—and the sun throned on high—
How far was thy flight mid thy path through the blue,
As thou sankest away from our wandering view;—
But thy form rottens now with the beasts of the plain,
And it never shall soar from its slumber again.
We will mourn, we will mourn for thee, proud bird of heaven,
Whose loftiest walks to thy footsteps were given;