the wounded hare
inhuman man! curse on thy barb'rous art,
and bsted be thy murder-aiming eye;
may never pity soothe thee with a sigh,
nor ever pleasure gd thy cruel heart!
go live, poor wand'rer of the wood and field!
the bitter little that of life remains:
no more the thiing brakes and verdant pins
to thee a home, or food, or pastime yield.
seek, mangled wretch, some pce of wonted rest,
no more of rest, but now thy dying bed!
the sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head,
the cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest.
perhaps a mother's angu
The Wounded Hare(1/2)