The Fox-Chace, XXI

And now the Fox is losing ground; Now strains his speed each eager hound; Now at his brush the foremost prest; Now at his side, now at his breast; And now despair o’ercoming fright, The crafty Fox turns round to fight; But soon by numbers overthrown, He yields his life without a groan. Thus fell the Fox, and, hate aside, We’ll say, at least, he nobly died.