THOUGH once a puppy, and though Fop by name, Here moulders one whose bones some honour claim; No sycophant, although of spaniel race, And though no hound, a martyr to the chase. Ye squirrels, rabbits, leverets, rejoice! Your haunts no longer echo to his voice; This record of his fate exulting view, He died worn out with vain pursuit of you. "Yes"--the indignant shade of Fop replies-- "And worn with vain pursuit man also dies." | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...NURSE'S SONG, FR. SONGS OF EXPERIENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE ON EXPLORATION by JAMES GALVIN THE MAN WITH THE HOE by EDWIN MARKHAM THE SHEPHEARDES CALENDER: JANUARY by EDMUND SPENSER SAINT AGNES' EVE by ALFRED TENNYSON THE CRISIS by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER HELIADES: ZEUS, BRAZEN THUNDER-HURLER by AESCHYLUS |