Sealed

To put face to feathery form, the nation...


An eagle, on the wing and rising to
the sky, a field prevailing azure, blue
revealed by golden glory breaking through
the argent ring of clouds aligned anew
above the bird: a halo made of stars
now taking place and rank among the powers,
the power of peace before the power of wars,
all sovereignties reordered after ours,
a nation reckoned by a blazing sun:
and thus our fate is sealed, all battles won.

The eagle tips the balance towards peace:
its dexter talon rightly won’t release
the olive branch; and peaceward does it face
forever to its honorable embrace,
and yet the raptor holds its arrows fast
within its eastward talon to avast
what sinister designs may come to pass;
it clings this bundle, ready to the last
to stave all threats before they are begun
and thus our fate is sealed, all battles won.

Behold the eagle’s shield, the chief and pale
held front and center by their own avail,
the two most honored ordinaries hailed
to mark the great escutcheon unassailed,
a symbol for the way the eagle rules:
the azure chief a congress for the whole
above a pale of stripes, argent and gules
kept closely unified: so speaks the scroll
of our perpetual creed: “Of many, one,”
and thus our fate is sealed, all battles won.

Within the eagle’s beak this Latin pun

becomes our purpose and criterion,

our everlasting oath beneath the sun:

E pluribus, of many, unum, one,

and thus our fate is sealed, all battles won.