Thy destroyer is the eagle grey.
Not a swallow ’tis, that hovering clings,
Hovering clings to her warm little nest;
To the murdered son the mother clings.
And her tears fall like the rushing stream,
And his sister’s like the flowing rill;
Like the dew her tears fall of his love:
When the sun shines, it dries up the dew.
—From Talvi’s Historical View.