the wounded hare
inhuman man! curse on thy barb'rous art,
and blasted be thy murder-aiming eye;
may never pity soothe thee with a sigh,
nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart!
go live, poor wand'rer of the wood and field!
the bitter little that of life remains:
no more the thickening brakes and verdant plains
to thee a home, or food, or pastime yield.
seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest,
no more of rest, but now thy dying bed!