The elephant, sagacious creature, dies,
For iv’ry pierced with weapons as he flies.
“He who slays me for what I leave behind,
Reflects not: ‘Blood that’s spilt demands its kind.’185
To-day ’tis I; to-morrow ’twill be thou;
Who’ll be most loser? ’Tis not I, all know.
The shadow of a wall, ’tis true, is wide;
The sun revolves; the shadow’s turn’d aside.
The world’s a mountain; all our works, a voice;
Our voice goes forth; its echo has no choice.”