And calls assistance by her cries;
But ah! in vain, no succour’s near,
The hunt pursue the tim’rous hare.
Too late she sees from whence arose
The source of all her bleeding woes:
Secluded now from every friend,
Her sorrows but with life can end,
What’s to be done—reflection’s vain,
And serves but to increase her pain;
Quite spent, she howling yields her life,