FOR CHILDREN. 265

The tawny Eagle seats his callow brood —

High on the cliff, and feasts his young with blood.
On Snowdon’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 ;
Through the wide waste of air he darts his sight,
And holds his sounding pinions poised for flight :
With cruel eye premeditates the war,

And marks his destined victim from afar :
Descending in a whirlwind to the ground,

His pinions like the rush of waters sound ;

The fairest of the fold he bears away,

And to his nest compels the struggling prey.

He scorns the game by meaner hunters tore,
And dips his talons in no vulgar gore.

With lovelier pomp, along the grassy plain,

The silver pheasant draws his shining train :
Once on the painted banks of Ganges’ stream
He spread his plumage to the sunny gleam ;
Bat now the wiry net his flight confines,

He lowers his purple crest, and inly pines.

To claim the verse unnumbered tribes appear,
That swell the music of the vernal year:
Seized with the spirit of the kindly spring,
They tune the voice, and sleek the glossy wing,
With emulative strife the notes prolong,

And pour out all their little souls in song.

When winter bites upon the naked plain,

Nor food nor shelter in the groves remain,

By instinct led, a firm united band,

Is marshalled by some skilful general’s hand,
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