Thoſe dip their crooked beak in kindred blood;
Some haunt the ruſhy moor, the lonely woods;
Some bathe their ſilver plumage in the floods;
Some fly to man, his houſhold gods implore,
And gather round his hoſpitable door;
Wait the known call, and find protection there
From all the leſſer tyrants of the air.
The tawny Eagle ſeats his callow brood
High on the cliff, and feaſts his young with blood.
On Snowden's rocks, or Orkney's wide domain,
Whoſe beetling cliffs o'erhang the weſtern main,
The royal bird his lonely kingdom forms
Amidſt the gathering clouds, and ſullen ſtorms:
Thro' the wide waſte of air he darts his ſight
And holds his ſounding pinions pois'd for flight;
With cruel eye premeditates the war,
And marks his deſtin'd victim from afar:
