He that had gazed upon this head
Ere yet the spark of life was fled,
Before the butcher’s cursed fingers
“Had swept the lines where beauty lingers,”
Had playful seen in Nature’s pride
The offspring at its mother’s side—
Oh! who could think that tyrant man
Could e’er curtail its narrow span—
In fetters drag it helpless thence,
And slay it in its innocence!