The living thunder o’er his head.
His charger spurned the mountain turf,
For he o’er glaciered Alps had trod,—
He scorned to bear the island serf,
And only stood to Europe’s God.
And now, the prisoner’s spirit soared,
And fiercely glanced his eagle eye;
He grasped again his crimson sword,
And bade his silken eagle fly.
High on a cliff, that braved the storm,