XXI.
And now the Fox is losing ground;
Now strains his speed each eager hound;
Now at his brush the foremost prest;
Now at his side, now at his breast;
And now despair o’ercoming fright,
The crafty Fox turns round to fight;
But soon by numbers overthrown,
He yields his life without a groan.
Thus fell the Fox, and, hate aside,
We’ll say, at least, he nobly died.