HALI^TUS ALBICILLA. 83 



Although getting rare in the British islands, sea eagles are 

 still pretty numerous at Horn Head — a wild, precipitous coast 

 overhanging the sea, opposite Torry Island, the farthest north- 

 west point of the County of Donegal, in Ireland. But though 

 only found now in the most rugged and inaccessible situations, 

 they are simply driven there as a last resort by man in his 

 higher mission of progress — on the same principle that the 

 mammoth, the mastodon, and the dodo have been driven from 

 the world * or as the lion and the tiger and the elephant may 

 yet be from the jungles of Africa and Asia — as the wolf, the 

 bear, and the wild boar have been driven into the limbo of 

 extinction from our own island, including the very district of 

 which I am writing, by the ever-widening circle and tyranny of 

 what is called civilization. But were it not for the usurpation 

 and blind exterminating influence of man, in his too often wilful 

 destruction of animal life, and inherent desire to destroy every 

 creature wilder than himself, the sea eagle would be found on 

 every rocky headland, and seen sweeping around every rocky 

 coast wherever birds and quadrupeds lived and died, or stranded 

 fish were found on the littoral snores of Britain. 



Before closing this sketch of our two eagles, I may remark 

 that Shakespeare, too, like Samuel,. coupled the king of birds 

 with the king of beasts ; for, in Henry VI., he makes brave 

 old Warwick exclaim — when dying — before he, too, became 

 extinct in death— 



" My blood, my want of strength, my sick heart shows 

 That I must yield my body to the earth ; 

 And, by my fall, the conquest to my foe. 

 Thus yields the cedar to the axe's edge, 

 Whose arms gave shelter to the princely eagle, 

 Under whose shade the ramping lion slept. 

 Whose top-branch overpower'd Jove's spreading tree, 

 And kept low shrubs from winter's powerful wind. 

 These eyes, that now are dimm'd with death's black veil, 

 Have been as piercing as the mid-day sun 

 To search the secret treasons of the world ; 

 The wrinkles in my brows, now fill'd with blood, 

 Were liken'd oft to kingly sepulchres ; 

 For who liv'd king but I could dig his grave? 

 And who durst smile when Warwick bent his brow ? 

 So now my glory smear'd in dust and blood ! 

 My parks, my walks, my manors that I had 

 Even now forsake me ; and of all my lands 

 Is nothing left me but my body's length ! 

 Why, what is pomp, rule, reign, but earth and dust ? 

 And live we how we can, yet die we must." 



