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...SHELLEY'S SKYLARK by THOMAS HARDY THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER by FRANCIS SCOTT KEY FAR - FAR - AWAY (FOR MUSIC) by ALFRED TENNYSON TO THE REV. F.D. MAURICE by ALFRED TENNYSON BEAUREGARD by CATHERINE ANNE WARFIELD ACROSS THE SEA by WILLIAM ALLINGHAM THE BIRDS: THE HYMN OF THE BIRDS by ARISTOPHANES |