Upon the Eagle's back.

In vain it buffets with its wings,
In vain it wheels around;
Still screaming, in its airy rings,
It sinks towards the ground.

Run, Donald, run! she has not stirr'd,
And she is deadly pale:
She's dead; and with the dying bird
Descending to the vale.

Lo! Donald flies.--She touches earth:
O form'd on earth to shine!
O mother of unrivall'd worth,
And sav'd by aid divine!

She lives unhurt--unhurt too lies
The baby in her clasp;
And her aerial tyrant dies
Just strangled in her grasp.

What triumph swelled in Donald's breast,
And o'er his features spread.
When he his living mother prest,
And held the Eagle dead!

Angels, who left your realms of bliss.
And on this parent smil'd,
Guard every mother brave as this,