The Eagle and the Sonnet

As on the sceptre of the Olympian King
The Royal eagle sat, bedrowsed and still,
The Theban sketch'd him, while the savage will
And strength of the great bird were slumbering;
If Pindar drew him best with drooping wings,
And on a quiet perch his likeness took,
How shall the sonnet, least of rhythmic things,
Presume to take him flying? Will he brook
To wheel and hover, while I hunt for rhymes?
Returning at the Muse's fitful times,
For yet another study? And, if so,
Will he not yearn at last to strike one blow
At his own miniature, and swoop from high
To clutch my climax with an angry cry?