Like a goddess she strives with the gales:
Behold her alone in her glorious might,
With her banners of beauty and streamers of light,
Like a condor when out on his terrible flight,
Where the breath of the tempest prevails.
Hark, hark! ’tis her thunder! her flags are all out,
And the lightning’s the wreath she will wear;
Now it shines on her mast—now ’tis hurried about,
’Mid the ring of the sword and the rapturous shout,
By the breath of the sulphury air.