Its wings outstretched stifi’ with unbending ice.
Cold, cold and white it glimmers there,

A still-unconsecrated sacrifice.

To what cruel deity, pale Wayfarer,

Hast thou been offered, stricken in the pride
Of soaring over the immeasurable tide

That sweeps in slow and Wide

Above the ruins of a thousand lands ?

The wings that beat triumphant shall not stir
Again, nor shall a single note

Swell the strong sinews of that splendid throat,
And soon beneath the fickle sands

Shall vanish the last sign of thy long strife.
Oh, what cruel god has plucked with impious hands

The pinions of adventure from thy life P

S0 falls the stricken spirit down the skies,

Its power blighted in the frozen breath

Of time, and on some undiscovered shore

Gives up the trophies of its brave emprise,

While through the broken rocks and crannies pour
The inrushing tides of overwhelming death.

E 55 1