Charles Tennyson (1808–1879)

A HUNDRED wings are dropped as soft as one,

Now ye are lighted; lovely to my sight

The fearful circle of your gentle flight,

Rapid and mute, and drawing homeward soon;

And then, the sober chiding of your tone

(As there ye sit, from your own roofs arraigning

My trespass on your haunts, so boldly done)

Sounds like a solemn and a just complaining!

O happy, happy race! for though there clings

A feeble fear about your timid clan,

Yet are ye blest! with not a thought that brings

Disquietude; while proud and sorrowing man,

An eagle, weary of his mighty wings,

With anxious inquest fills his little span.