That had not, under her tender paw,
A limb to move, nor a breath to draw!
Then she called her kit for a mother's gift,
And stilled its mew with the racy lift.
When Mole of the awful death was told,
"Alas!" cried she, "he had grown too bold—
Too vain and proud! Had he only kept,
Like the
prudent Mole
, in his nest, and slept.