The Fox’s Lair

Bleak is that spot, prone to the west, When winter lays it bare, And when among those rocks the blast Moans harshly on the ear.

But there, though bleak, though rough, though wild, Old Reynard makes his bed, And shelter’d by those rocks, beguil’d, Serenely rests his head.

Therein he lurks the livelong day, There sleeps the wily thief; He, like a robber, plans for prey, But comes at last to grief.

Around and ’bout those mossy stones, Wherein the felon prowls, Lay strewn a thousand tiny bones— The sunder’d frames of fowls,

Of lambs, and other innocents, Bred to have ’dorn’d the plate: Those sundry farm-yard ’habitants Met a most wretched fate!

The sunbeams gild not Reynard’s brow, He shuns it with dismay; He feeds not with the old milch-cow In open fields of day.

The last streaks of the sunken Joy Are signals to advance; Then the foul cave he leaves so coy, And like a rogue doth glance

Below, above; his eyes roll round, He sniffs the breath of night: All’s silent now,—no yelping sound Prevents his hasty flight.

Out, and upon his deathly track, The coppice combs his hair; Instinctively he weens his back Will have a prize to bear.

Behold him on the farm-yard fence, Surveying the peaceful fold: See how the tartar sneaks from thence— Ah! see—his jaws have hold! * * *

His little lambkin victim dies: Then, with accustom’d skill, He hurls it on his back, and flies Home to the stony-hill.

There in his haunt (rocks and dank earth), The daring burglar spills His victim’s blood, with brigand’s mirth, And sends it forth in rills * * *

Next morn, as usual, all the flock Is counted o’er, and o’er,— Suspicion is arous’d—the stock Is minus one! (not more)—

The farmer hurriedly looks ’round, Unwilling to believe His little lamb’s not to be found, Then he begins to grieve:

So ’round and ’round the yard he paced, Scann’d every thought-of nook; At length upon the fence he traced The course the rebel took.

Beyond the fence a narrow pass Through thick-grown furze led on To where there was a patch of grass, A spot both dank and lone;

Here turn’d the fiend through dwarfish oak, Which stretch’d up half a mile, Then nimbly cross’d a limpid brook, And gain’d the granite pile.

Long ere the farmer reach’d this den The wolfish feast was past: He mourn’d his lost one, but ’twas vain, And said—“This is thy last.”

Six rough-hair’d terriers, fresh from sleep, All eager for the fray, Compell’d the laughing fiend to weep Before it was noon-day.

The clacking of each battle dog Surprised the sharp-nosed thief; Who doubtless stood shrunk like a slug, Yet desperate in his grief.

Now raged the conflict doubly fierce: Uncertain which had won, The farmer listen’d: shrieks then pierce His ear: he listen’d on—

Alas! he miss’d his favourite’s voice— His darling’s tongue was hush’d; From him—the warrior-dog of choice— Life’s stream had freely gush’d,

Though his was not the only wound: A pause: now all is mute:— Then came five grisly dogs to ground; They limp—the pain’s so ’cute.

Spill’d blood bespatter’d each rough skin, Which spoke the dreadful strife That murderously had raged within, With sacrifice of life.

Yes! out they came, and bore along The corpse of their slain mate:— The farmer’s heart was sorely wrung To see his favourite’s fate!