Yet what might be the fleet-winged wanderer's fate.
Did either pinion fail? Its flight is true
Only when level buoyed upon the plumy two.

"A shaft of light upon its wings descended.
And every golden feather gleamed therein."
Ay! and their fate's inextricably blended;
Let either faint or flag, they shall not win
Athwart the aërial azure clear and thin.
Brothered in use are they, in use and need.
See how the Serpent's many-coloured skin
Writhes hither, thither, with insidious heed,
Striving to maim _one_ pinion. Shall the pest succeed?

Bred far below, in dank malarious slime,
That Serpent hath no power to soar in air,
Save clinging to winged creatures that can climb
The empyrean; yet from its foul lair
It sprang to the broad wings it would ensnare,
Encoil, enshackle, hamper, break, drag down.
How swept the Bird so low that it should dare,
That Worm, to wriggle midst its plumes full grown,
And with the Air's sole monarch thus dispute the crown?

Alas! the Eagle stooped; those well-poised pinions
Faltered, and beat the air unevenly;
Nor shall the Bird maintain its proud dominions
If those wings lapse from rhythm, pulse awry.
Vain power of beak and claw, keenness of eye,
Or pride of crested head, if those broad vanes