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44 Decending in a whirlwind to the ground, His pinions like the ruh of waters ound; The fairet of the fold he bears away, And to his net compels the truggling prey. He corns the game by meaner hunters tore, And dips his talons in no vulgar gore.

&emsp;With lovelier pomp along the gray plain The ilver draws his hining train. Once on the painted banks of Ganges' tream, He pread his plumage to the unny gleam: But now the wiry net his flight confines, He lowers his purple cret, and inly pines. To claim the vere, unnumber'd tribes appear That well the muic of the vernal year: Seiz'd with the pirit of the kindly pring They tune the voice, and leek the gloy wing: With emulative trife the notes prolong And