And winged the shaft that quivered in his heart:
Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel
He nursed the pinion which impelled the steel,
While the same plumage that had warmed his nest
Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast.
Byron: On the Death of Kirke White.
Waller says, in his Lines to a Lady singing a song of his own composing,—
That eagle’s fate and mine are one,
Which, on the shaft that made him die,
Espied a feather of his own