Aloft he guards the starry folds
  Who is the brother of the star;
The bird whose joy is in the wind
  Exulteth in the war.

No painted plume—a sober hue,
  His beauty is his power;
That eager calm of gaze intent
  Foresees the Sibyl’s hour.

Austere, he crowns the swaying perch,
  Flapped by the angry flag;
The...