ALOFT he guards the starry folds Who is the brother of the star; The bird whose joy is in the wind Exulteth 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 volleyed flame can bear. The pride of quenchless strength is his— Strength which, though chained, avails; The very rebel looks and thrills— The anchored Emblem hails. Though scarred in many a furious fray, No deadly hurt he knew; Well may we think his years are charmed— The Eagle of the Blue.SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
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