Chapter XXXIX

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But there is one tree blasted 'mid the green,
Surrounding forest; and an eagle, there,
Looks sadly o'er the gaily, glitt'ring scene,
A mourner--with his bleeding bosom bare:--
No more! no more! he'll reach his eyry now,
Or sport in triumph o'er the mountain's brow;
His wing may hide the death-bolt as he dies,
No more shall it expand to bear him to the skies.