XVII

Mourns not her mate with such melodious pain;

      Not so the eagle, who like thee could scale

      Heaven, and could nourish in the sun's domain

      Her mighty youth with morning, doth complain,

      Soaring and screaming round her empty nest,

      As Albion wails for thee: the curse of Cain

      Light on his head who pierced thy innocent breast,

And scared the angel soul that was its earthly guest!