An eagle sat upon the fell,—

He sat and sang alone.

A pretty maid passed in the dell,

He saw—his heart was won.

“Ah, lovely maid, enchanting maid,

Alas, thou canst not fly!

Down in the vale thou soon shalt fade,

And like a floweret die.

“I’d make thee queen, if thou could’st fly,

Of all my mountains steep;

At night I’d sing thy lullaby,

And in my wings thou’dst sleep.

“Those eyes are like black night to me,

That smile like sunshine bright;

And heaven itself would quickly be

Subdued before thy might.

“Good Lord, canst thou not fly at all?

Who made thee without wings?

Art thou content down there to crawl

With loathsome creeping things?”

Thus on his rock the eagle proud

Sat singing, then he sailed

O’er hill and valley, and aloud

The maiden’s fate bewailed.