Then weave thy chaplet of flowers, and strew the beauties of nature about the grave; console thy broken spirit, if thou canst, with these tender, yet futile, tributes of regret:  but take warning by the bitterness of this, thy contrite affliction over the dead, and henceforth be more faithful and affectionate in the discharge of thy duties to the living. 
          
                                                   —­Irving.

LXVI.  THE EAGLE. (251)

James Gates Percival, 1795-1856, was born at Berlin, Connecticut, and graduated at Yale College in 1815, at the head of his class.  He was admitted to the practice of medicine in 1820, and went to Charleston, South Carolina.  In 1824 he was appointed Professor of Chemistry at West Point, a position which he held but a few months.  In 1854 he was appointed State Geologist of Wisconsin, and died at Hazel Green, in that state.  Dr. Percival was eminent as a geographer, geologist, and linguist.  He began to write poetry at an early age, and his fame rests chiefly upon his writings in this department.  In his private life, Percival was always shy, modest, and somewhat given to melancholy.  Financially, his life was one of struggle, and he was often greatly straitened for money. ###

Bird of the broad and sweeping wing! 
  Thy home is high in heaven,
Where the wide storms their banners fling,
  And the tempest clouds are driven. 
Thy throne is on the mountain top;
  Thy fields, the boundless air;
And hoary peaks, that proudly prop
  The skies, thy dwellings are.

Thou art perched aloft on the beetling crag,
  And the waves are white below,
And on, with a haste that can not lag,
  They rush in an endless flow. 
Again thou hast plumed thy wing for flight
  To lands beyond the sea,
And away, like a spirit wreathed in light,
  Thou hurriest, wild and free.

Lord of the boundless realm of air! 
  In thy imperial name,
The hearts of the bold and ardent dare
  The dangerous path of fame,
Beneath the shade of thy golden wings,
  The Roman legions bore,
From the river of Egypt’s cloudy springs,
  Their pride, to the polar shore.

For thee they fought, for thee they fell,
  And their oath on thee was laid;
To thee the clarions raised their swell,
  And the dying warrior prayed. 
Thou wert, through an age of death and fears,
  The image of pride and power,
Till the gathered rage of a thousand years,
  Burst forth in one awful hour.

And then, a deluge of wrath, it came,
  And the nations shook with dread;
And it swept the earth, till its fields were flame,
  And piled with the mingled dead. 
Kings were rolled in the wasteful flood,
  With the low and crouching slave;
And together lay, in a shroud of blood,
  The coward and the brave.

Notes.—­Roman legions.  The Roman standard was the image of an eagle.  The soldiers swore by it, and the loss of it was considered a disgrace.