the wounded hare

inhuman man! curse on thy barb'rous art,

and sted be thy murder-aiming eye;

may never pity soothe thee with a sigh,

nor ever pleasure d thy cruel heart!

go live, poor wand'rer of the wood and field!

the bitter little that of life remains:

no more the thickening brakes and verdant ins

to thee a home, or food, or pastime yield.

seek, mangled wretch, some ce of wonted rest,

no more of rest, but now thy dying bed!