Bury their fawn beneath a tree,
And chaunt a requiem to his shade.

Fortunio had a rustic knife,
With this their feeling task they plann'd,
And often in a friendly strife,
They claim'd it from each other's hand.

But ere their tedious toil advanc'd,
Towards its kind and tender end,
Cornelia, as her quick eye glanc'd,
Saw, what escap'd her toiling friend.

It was a sight that well might shake,
A little heart of stouter mould;
A sight, that made Cornelia quake,
And all her quivering fibres cold!

A furious Stag advancing sprung,
Eager along the echoing wood,
As if vindictive for his young,
To reach the spot, where now they stood.

Cornelia scarce could stand, for she
Began her guardian to entreat;
Seizing his busy arm, to flee
Far from the fawn before her feet.

The youth her painful terror saw,
And with a manly sterness said,