But the dark, gloomy gorge, where down plunges the foam
Of the fierce, rock-lashed torrent, he claims as his home:
Thêre he blends his keen shriek with the roar of the flood,
And the many-voiced sounds of the blast-smitten wood;
From the crag-grasping fir top, where morn hangs its wreath,
He views the mad waters white writhing beneath.
On a limb of that moss-bearded hemlock far down,
With bright azure mantle and gay mottled crown,
The kingfisher watches, where o'er him his foe,
The fierce hawk sails circling, each moment more low.
Now poised are those pinions, and pointed that beak,
His dread swoop is ready, when hark! with a shriek,
His eye-balls red blazing, high bristling his crest,
His snake-like neck arched, talons drawn to his breast,
With the rush of the wind gusts, the glancing of light,
The gray forest eagle shoots down in his flight;
One blow of those talons, one plunge of that neck,
The strong hawk hangs lifeless, a blood-dripping wreck,
And as dives the free kingfisher, dart-like on high
With his prey soars the eagle, and melts in the sky.

A fitful red glaring, a low, rumbling jar,
Proclaim the storm demon yet raging afar:

The black cloud strides upward, the lightning more red,
And the roll of the thunder more deep and more dread;
A thick pall of darkness is cast o'er the air,

And on bounds the blast with a howl from its lair:

The lightning darts zigzag and forked through the gloom,
And the bolt läunches o'er with crash, rattle, and boom;
The gray
forest eagle, where, where has he sped?
Does he shrink to his eyry, and shiver with dread?
Does the glare blind his eye? Has the terrible blast
On the wing of the sky-king a fear-fetter cast?

No, no, the brave eagle! he thinks not of fright;
The wrath of the tempest but rouses delight;
To the flash of the lightning his eye casts a gleam,
To the shriek of the wild blast he echoes his scream,
And with front like a warrior that speeds to the fray,
And a clapping of pinions, he's up and away!
Away, Oh, away, soars the fearless and free!
What recks he the sky's strife? its monarch is he!
The lightning darts round him, undaunted his sight;
The blast sweeps against him, unwavered his flight;
High upward, still upward, he wheels, till his form
Is lost in the black, scowling gloom of the storm.

The tempest sweeps o'er with its terrible train,
And the splendor of sunshine is glowing again;
Again smiles the soft, tender blue of the sky,
Waked-bird voices warble, fanned-leaf voices sigh;
On the green grass dance shadows, streams sparkle and run,
The breeze bears the odor its flower-kiss has won,
And full on the form of the demon in flight
The rainbow's magnificence gladdens the sight!

The gray forest eagle! Oh, where is he now,
While the sky wears the smile of its God on its brow?
There's a dark, floating spot by yon cloud's pearly wreath,
With the speed of the arrow 'tis shooting beneath!
Down, nearer and nearer it draws to the gaze,
Now over the rainbow, now blent with its blaze,
To a shape it expands, still it plunges through air,
A proud crest, a fierce eye, a broad wing are there;
'Tis the eagle-the gray forest eagle-once more
He sweeps to his eyry: his journey is o'er!

An emblem of Freedom, stern, haughty, and high,
Is the gray forest eagle, that king of the sky!
It scorns the bright scenes, the gay places of earth-
By the mountain and torrent it springs into birth;
There rocked by the wild wind, baptized in the foam,
It is guarded and cherished, and there is its home!
When its shadow steals black o'er the empires of kings,
Deep terror, deep heart-shaking terror it brings;
Where wicked oppression is armed for the weak,
Then rustles its pinions, then echoes its shriek;
Its eye flames with vengeance, it sweeps on its way,
And its talons are bathed in the blood of its prey.

Oh, that eagle of Freedom! when cloud upon cloud
Swathed the sky of my own native land with a shroud,
When lightnings gleamed fiercely, and thunder-bolts rung,
How proud to the tempest those pinions were flung!

Though the wild blast of battle swept fierce through the air,
With darkness and dread, still the eagle was there;
Unquailing, still speeding, his swift flight was on,
Till the rainbow of peace crowned the victory won.
Oh, that eagle of Freedom! age dims not his eye,
He has seen earth's mortality spring, bloom, and die:
He has seen the strong nations rise, flourish, and fall,
He mocks at Time's changes, he triumphs o'er all:

He has seen our own land with wild forests o'erspread;
He sees it with sunshine and joy on its head;
And his presence will bless this, his own chosen clime,
Till the Archangel's fiat is set upon time.

A. B. STREET

PRINCE.

And

CCVII. PRINCE-CESARIO.

Listen, Cesario,

you shall hear a curious history.
Keep Diego in your mind the while, and think
That he's the hero of it. Last night a man
Came masked unto a rich lord's house, (here in
Palermo)-do you hear how Etna mutters?
I fear there'll be irruption shortly.

PRI. This man petitioned for his life. He said That he had sworn to act a horrid deed,

And came to make disclosure. The great lord (His was the life in danger) promised full Forgiveness-but you do not listen.

He said

PRI.
A youth on whom the lord had lavished wealth,
And kindness and good precept, had forgot
His better tutoring, and lent deaf ears
To those divinest whispers which the soul
Breathes to prevent our èrring. He resolved
To kill his benefactor: that was bad.

CES. Oh! he deserved

PRI.

We'll talk of that hereafter.

Well-this bad man whose mind was spotted with

The foulest sin in the world, ingratitude,

Had sworn to murder this his friend.

My lord!

CES.
PRI. I see it shocks you: yes, for the sake of gold
He would have slain his old and faithful friend:
Have spurned the few gray locks that time had left,
And stopped the current of his reverend blood,
Which could not flow much longer.

CES.

Are you sure?

PRI. The plan was this: they were to bind him, for
To slay him here were dangerous, and transport
His wretched limbs to some most lonely place.

CES. Where-where was this?

PRI.

I'll tell you-for I once

Was housed there through a storm. A castle stands (Almost a ruin now) on the sea coast

Where it looks toward Calabria; as 'tis said,

A murder once was done there, and e'er since
It has been desolate; 'tis bleak, and stands
High on a rock, whose base was caverned out
By the wild seas, ages ago. The winds
Moan and make music through its halls, and there
The mountain-loving eagle builds his home.
But all's a waste: for miles and miles around
There's not a cot.

CES. Is't near the-eastward foot
Of Etna?

PRI. Yes: oh! then you know the spot.
Now, dear Cesario, couldst thou think a man,
Setting aside all ties, could do a deed

Of blackness there? Why 'tis within the reach
Of Etna, and some thirty years ago,

(The last eruption), when the lava rivers

Took their course toward that point, this dwelling was
In danger. I myself stood near the place,
And saw the bright fires stream along, when they
Crumbled the chestnut forests, and dark pines
And branching oaks to dust. The thunder spoke,
The rebel waves stood up and lashed the rocks,
And poured their stormy cries through every cave.
Each element was in motion then: the earth
Staggered and spouted fire: the winds-the seas—
And the fierce rains were heard: and here and there
The lightnings flew along their jagged paths
Like messengers of evil.

PRI. Fancy, Cesario, in this desolate house,

How, with a solitary lamp perhaps

Above you, how this aged wretch would look.

All his white hair blood-drenched, and his eye with

The horrid stare of dead mortality,

And death's own marble smile that changes not:
His hanging head and useless neck—his old
Affectionate heart that beats so fondly, now

That hope is passed. How will the Spaniard look
Think you, Cesario, when the question comes
Home to his heart? In truth he could not look

More pale than you do now. Cesario!

The eye of God has been upon him.

Beware how you

Curse him, for he is loaded heavily.

Sin and fierce wishes plague him, and the world

Will stamp its malediction on his head,

And God and man disown him.

Oh! no more.

CES.
No more, my dearest lord; behold me here,
Here at your feet—a wretch indeed, but now
Won quite from crime. Spare me.

PRI.

Rise. I forgivo
Your wickedness to me: but men like you
(Base, common, bribèd stabbers) must not roam
About the world so freely.

CES.

You could but see my heart!

PRI.

Oh! that now

I would not sce

Your bosom's black inhabitant. No more:
But listen to me again-nay, speak not, sir.
This is a different tale. Cesario!

When first you came to Sicily, you were
A little child: your noble father, worn
By toil and long misfortune, scarce had time
To beg protection for you ere he died.
Since, then, if in your memory I have failed
In kindness toward you, or good counseling,
Reproach me.

CES.

You have been most kind, too kind. PRI. Once in a painful illness, when none else