One piece that Grandma rarely did, was "The Eagle's Rock." It is a poem about an eagle that snatches a baby from where he is lying in the village green during a festival of some kind. The poem is essentially about mother love triumphing over all, as the strong young men of the village are not able to scale the steep cliff to the eagle's nest, but the baby's mother, not heeding the danger, climbs to the nest and rescues her baby. I have searched all over for this poem, and I can't find it. If anyone has it, I would love to put it here. In the meantime, I found this poem called "The Vulture of the Alps" in a book called, "Comstock's Elocution" that deals with a similar idea--a baby snatched by a large bird of prey. I include it here as a kind of place keeper. I imagine it was for elocution class in school that Grandma learned all of her poems. Why don't we do that anymore?
The Vulture of the Alps
I’ve been among the mighty Alps, and wandered thro’ their vales,
And heard the honest mountaineers—rel to their dismal tales,
As round the cotter’s blazing hearth, when their daily work was o’er.
They spake of those who disappeared, and ne’er were heard ofmore.
And there, I, from a shepherd, heard a narrative of fear,
A tale—to rend a mortal heart, which mothers—might not hear;
The tears—were standing in his eyes, his voice—was tremulous;
But wiping all those tears away, he told his story thus:
“It is among these barren cliffs—the ravenous vulture dwells,
Who never fattens on the prey, which from afar he smells;
But patient watching hour on hour upon a lofty rock,
He singles out some truant lamb, a victim, from the flock.
One cloudless Sabbath summer morn, the sun was rising high,
When, from my children on the green, I heard a fearful cry,
As if some awful deed were done, a shriek of grief, and pain,
A cry, I humbly trust in God, I ne’er may hear again.
I hurried out to learn the cause; but, overwhelmed with fright,
The children never ceased to shriek; and, from my frenzied sight,
I missed the youngest of my babes, the darling of my care;
But something caught my searching eyes, slow sailing thro’ the air.
Oh! What an awful spectacle—to meet a father’s eye,--
His infant—made a vulture’s prey, with terror to descry;
And know, with agonizing heart, and with a maniac rave,
That earthly power—could not avail—that innocent to save!
My infant—stretched his little hands—imploringly to me,
And struggled with the ravenous bird, all vainly to get free:
At intervals, I heard his cries, as loud he shrieked and screamed!
Until, upon the azure sky, a lessening spot he seemed.
The vulture—flapped his sail-like wings, though heavily he flew;
A mote upon the sun’s broad face, he seemed unto my view;
But once I thought I saw him stoop, as if he would alight—
‘Twas only a delusive thought, for all had vanished quite.
All Search was vain, and years had passed; that child was ne’er forgot
When once a daring hunter climbed unto a lofty spot.
From thence, upon a rugged crag—the chamois never reached,
He saw—an infant’s fleshless bones—the elements had bleached!
I clambered up that rugged cliff—I could not stay away—
I knew they were my infant’s bones—thus hastening to decay;
A tattered garment—yet remained, though torn to many a shred:
The crimson cap—he wore that morn—was still upon his head.”
That dreary spot—is pointed out to travelers, passing by,
Who often stand and musing, gaze, nor go without a sigh;
And as I journeyed, the next morn, along my sunny way,
The precipice was shown to me, whereon the infant lay.
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