"Ah, lovely maid, enchanting maid,
     Alas, thou canst not fly!
Down in the vale thou soon shalt fade,
     And like a floweret die.

"I'd make thee queen, if thou could’st fly,
     Of all my mountains steep;
At night I'd sing thy lullaby,
     And in my wings thou'dst sleep.

"Those eyes are like black night to me,
     That smile like sunshine bright;
And heaven itself would quickly be
     Subdued before thy might.

"Good Lord, canst thou not fly at all?
     Who made thee without wings?
Art thou content down there to crawl?
     With loathsome creeping things?"

Thus on his rock the eagle proud
     Sat singing, then he sailed
O’er hill and valley, and aloud
     The maiden's fate bewailed.