When, in his strength, the monarch of the air
Soars proudly through the azure fields of heaven,
His pinions burning in the noontide glare,
Or flashing in the deep red dyes of even,
He sees the earth receding from his eye,
And looking round him, in his chainless glee,
Utters a loud, a long, wild, piercing cry—
And that’s the joyous shout of Liberty.
But when he leaves those vast ethereal plains,
And falls into the fowler’s hidden snare,