Of mine ancestral hall;
I hear my native river moan;
I see the night o’er my old forests fall.
I look round on the darkening vale
That saw my childhood’s plays;
The low wind in its rising wail
Hath a strange tone, a sound of other days.
But I must rule my swelling breast:
A sign is in the sky!
Bright o’er yon gray rock’s eagle-nest