Byron: English Bards and Scotch Reviewers, line 826.
Like a young eagle, who has lent his plume
To fledge the shaft by which he meets his doom,
See their own feathers pluck'd to wing the dart
Which rank corruption destines for their heart.
Thomas Moore: Corruption.
[221:1] The dome of thought, the palace of the soul.—Byron: Childe Harold, canto ii. stanza 6.
[221:2] See Daniel, page [39].
To vanish in the chinks that Time has made.—Rogers: Pæstum.