Home the eagle hies,
Swift, to his eyrie, his broad pinions stretched,
Bearing him onwards, seeming motionless
The while with rapid wing he cleaves the air,
As ship the waters: now the grousecock crows
On heathered knoll his vesper lullaby
To his dear mate.
And from the silver lake,
Cradled in mountain-setting, echoing comes,
With rippling music on the air, the plash