And there extols his branching horns,
While his poor spindle-shanks he scorns—
But, lo! he hears the hunter’s cries,
And, frighten’d, o’er the champaign flies—
His swiftness baffles the pursuit:
At length a wood receives the brute,
And by his horns entangled there,
The pack began his flesh to tear:
Then dying thus he wail’d his fate:
“Unhappy me! and wise too late!