Whose lair is in the wood, sore-famish’d grind
Their sounding jaws, and froz’n and quaking fly
Where oaks the mountain dells imbranch on high:
They seek to couch in thickets of the glen,
Or lurk deep-shelter’d in the rocky den.
[102]Like aged men who, prop’d on crutches, tread
Tottering with broken strength and stooping head,
So move the beasts of earth; and creeping low
Shun the white flakes and dread the drifting snow.
I warn thee, now, around thy body cast,