Is worse: how pitiful to see your weakling pine
And pale and pass away! Strong brats, this pair of mine!
"O misery! for while I settle to what near seems
Content, I am 'ware again of the tramp, and again there gleams—
Point and point—the line, eyes, levelled green brassy fire!
So soon is resumed your chase? Will nothing appease, naught tire
The furies? And yet I think—I am certain the race is slack,
And the numbers are nothing like. Not a quarter of the pack!
Feasters and those full-fed are staying behind ... Ah, why?
We'll sorrow for that too soon! Now,—gallop, reach home, and die,