E’en now methinks its looks implore,
Tho’ fixed in death, tho’ stain’d with gore;
“And but for that sad shrouded eye,”
That gives the rising thought the lie,
One yet might think it breath’d with life,
And gaz’d upon the threat’ning knife!
The sturdy ox falls in his prime,
The sheep is happy for a time,
This only feels man’s ceaseless hate;—
I mused—and pond’ring o’er its fate,