Author Unknown.    

	King of the peak and glacier,
	King of the cold, white scalps,
	He lifts his head at that close tread,
	The eagle of the Alps.

Victor Hugo.    

	Bird of the broad and sweeping wing,
	Thy home is high in heaven,
	Where wide the storms their banners fling,
	And the tempest clouds are driven.

Percival.    

	Around, around, in ceaseless circles wheeling,
	With clangs of wings and scream, the Eagle sailed
	Incessantly.

Shelley.    

	So the struck eagle, stretched upon the plain,
	No more through rolling clouds to soar again,
	Viewed his own feather on the fatal dart,
	And winged the shaft that quivered in his heart.

Byron.    

	Tho’ he inherit
	Nor the pride, nor ample pinion,
	That the Theban eagle bear,
	Sailing with supreme dominion
	Thro’ the azure deep of air.

Gray.    

	That eagle’s fate and mine are one,
	Which, on the shaft that made him die,
	Espied a feather of his own,
	Wherewith he wont to soar so high.

E. Waller.    

	Shall eagles not be eagles? wrens be wrens?
	If all the world were falcons, what of that?
	The wonder of the eagle were the less,
	But he not less the eagle.

Tennyson.    

	He clasps the crag with hooked hands;
	Close to the sun in lonely lands,
	Ring’d with the azure world, he stands.
	The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls:
	He watches from his mountain walls,
	And like a thunderbolt he falls.

Tennyson.