The prey hath cross’d, or crossing thence.)
Ah! little think they (but ’tis true)
That, as they heed the fleeting throng,
Those hunters’ coats, red, green, or blue,
Have from such backs as theirs been flung.
Turn, reader, from the blithesome chase
To where the staggering thrust is dealt;
Behold the death-stains on the face,
And see what gory blood is spilt:
Conceive, what thousands in a day