He lies with neck extended; head hard pressed
Upon the very turf where late he fed.
His writhing fibres speak his inward pain!
His smoking nostrils speak his inward fire!
Oh! how he glares! and hark! methinks I hear
His bubbling blood, which seems to burst the veins.
Amazement! Horror! What a desperate plunge,
See! where his ironed hoof has dashed a sod
With the velocity of lightning. Ah!--
He rises,--triumphs;--yes, the victory's his!
No--the wrestler Death again has thrown him
And--oh! with what a murdering dreadful fall!
Soft!--he is quiet. Yet whence came that groan,
Was't from his chest, or from the throat of death
Exulting in his conquest! I know not,
But if 'twas his, it surely was his last;
For see, he scarcely stirs! Soft! Does he breathe?
Ah no! he breathes no more. 'Tis very strange!

How still he's now! how fiery hot--how cold
How terrible! How lifeless! all within
A few brief moments!--My reason staggers!
Philosophy, thy poor enlightened dotard,
Who canst for every thing assign a cause,
Here take thy stand beside me, and explain
This hidden mystery. Bring with thee
The head strong Atheist; who laughs at heaven
And impiously ascribes events to chance,
To help to solve this wonderful enigma!
First, tell me, ye proud haughty reasoners,