With head thrown back and heaving flank distressed
It hears the hounds - the hunter's bugle ring;
What hand shall save the tame unantlered thing?
What covert give the harmless creature rest?
Down the loing vale and o'er the woodland crest,
Across the flood with piteous fear for wing
It speeds, the leaps and with a desperate spring
Hangs mute, impaled, the fence spear in its breast.
When shall the heart of gentler England prove
Its pure compassion for all needless pain,
When shall we learn the bond of brotherhood
'Twixt man and these wild creatures of the wood,
And nobler days of sport bring nobler gain
For manhood sworn to pity and to love?