XVII

      Thy spirit’s sister, the lorn nightingale
       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 pierc’d thy innocent breast,
And scar’d the angel soul that was its earthly guest!


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