Thou that didst mark from Heircte’s spacious hill
The Roman spears, like mist, uprise each morn,
Yet held, with Hesper’s shining point of scorn,
Thy sword unsheathed above Panormus still;
Thou that were leagued with nought but thine own will,
Eurythmic vastness to that stronghold torn
From foes above, below, where, though forlorn,
Thou still hadst claws to cling, and beak to kill—
Eagle of Eryx!—When the Ægation shoal
Rolled westward all the hopes that Hanno wrecked
With mighty wing, unwearying, didst thou
Seek far beyond the wolf’s grim protocol,
Within the Iberian sunset faintly specked
A rock where Punic faith should bide its vow.