I hear the deep-mouth’d thunder rise;
The monarch of the woodland flies,
Whilst the loud triumphs of the horn
On breezy wings are backward born.[[31]]
His subject mates no succour lend;
What tyrant ever found a friend?
He dies!—the satiate echoes cease;
The forest reassumes its peace.
Now sun-burnt Autumn with his spoils
Diana’s bleeding altar piles: