The stag, too, singled from the herd, where long <br />He ranged, the branching monarch of the shade, <br />Before the tempest drives. At first, in speed <br />He, sprightly, puts his faith, and, roused by fear, <br />Gives all his swift aerial soul to flight; <br />Against the breeze he darts, that way the more <br />To leave the lessening murderous cry behind: <br />He bursts the thickets, glances through the glades, <br />And plunges deep into the wildest wood: <br />If slow, yet sure, adhesive to the track, <br />Hot-steaming, up behind him come again <br />The inhuman rout, and from the shady depth <br />Expel him, circling through his every shift. <br />He sweeps the forest oft, and sobbing sees <br />The glades, mild opening to the golden day; <br />Where, in kind contest, with his butting friends <br />He wont to struggle, or his loves enjoy. <br />Oft in the full-descending flood he tries <br />To lose the scent, and lave his burning sides: <br />Oft seeks the herd; the watchful herd, alarm'd, <br />With selfish care avoids a brother's woe. <br />What shall he do? His once so vivid nerves, <br />So full of buoyant spirits, now no more <br />Inspire the course; but fainting breathless toil, <br />Sick, seizes on his heart: he stands at bay; <br />And puts his last weak refuge in despair. <br />The big round tears run down his dappled face; <br />He groans in anguish; while the growling pack, <br />Blood-happy, hang at his fair jutting chest, <br />And mark his beauteous chequer'd sides with gore.<br /><br />James Thomson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/death-of-the-stag/
