Yet, hold, he rises!—no—the struggle's vain;

His strength avails him not. Beneath the gripe

Of the remorseless monster, stretched at length

He lies with neck extended; head hard pressed

Upon the very turf where late he fed.

His writhing fibres speak his inward pain!

His smoking nostrils speak his inward fire!

Oh! how he glares! and hark! methinks I hear

His bubbling blood, which seems to burst the veins.

Amazement! Horror! What a desperate plunge,