Page:Battle-Pieces and Aspects of the War.djvu/130



Aloft he guards the starry folds

Who is the brother of the star;

The bird whose joy is in the wind

Exultleth in the war.

No painted plume—a sober hue,

His beauty is his power;

That eager calm of gaze intent

Foresees the Sibyl's hour.

Austere, he crowns the swaying perch,

Flapped by the angry flag;

The hurricane from the battery sings,

But his claw has known the crag.

Amid the scream of shells, his scream

Runs shrilling; and the glare

Of eyes that brave the blinding sun

The vollied flame can bear.