And their lost children bend the subject knee,
Midst the proud tombs and trophies of the free.
Bird of the sun! dread eagle! born on high,
A creature of the empyreal—thou, whose eye
Was lightning to the earth—whose pinion waved
In haughty triumph o’er a world enslaved;
Sink from thy heavens! for glory’s noon is o’er,
And rushing storms shall bear thee on no more!
Closed is thy regal course—thy crest is torn,
And thy plume banish’d from the realms of morn.