sensation now
  The fuming vapour stings; flutter their hearts,
  And joy redoubled bursts from every mouth
  In louder symphonies.  Yon hollow trunk,
  That with its hoary head incurved, salutes
  The passing wave, must be the tyrant’s fort,
  And dread abode.  How these impatient climb,
  While others at the root incessant bay: 
  They put him down.  See, there he dives along!
430
  The ascending bubbles mark his gloomy way. 
  Quick fix the nets, and cut off his retreat
  Into the sheltering deeps.  Ah, there he vents! 
  The pack lunge headlong, and protended spears
  Menace destruction:  while the troubled surge
  Indignant foams, and all the scaly kind
  Affrighted, hide their heads.  Wild tumult reigns,
  And loud uproar.  Ah, there once more he vents! 
  See, that bold hound has seized him; down they sink,
  Together lost:  but soon shall he repent
440
  His rash assault.  See there escaped, he flies
  Half-drowned, and clambers up the slippery bank
  With ouze and blood distained.  Of all the brutes,
  Whether by Nature formed, or by long use,
  This artful diver best can bear the want
  Of vital air.  Unequal is the fight,
  Beneath the whelming element.  Yet there
  He lives not long; but respiration needs
  At proper intervals.  Again he vents;
  Again the crowd attack.  That spear has pierced
450
  His neck; the crimson waves confess the wound. 
  Fixed is the bearded lance, unwelcome guest,
  Where’er he flies; with him it sinks beneath,
  With him it mounts; sure guide to every foe. 
  Inly he groans; nor can his tender wound
  Bear the cold stream.  Lo! to yon sedgy bank
  He creeps disconsolate; his numerous foes
  Surround him, hounds and men.  Pierced through and through,
  On pointed spears they lift him high in air;
  Wriggling he hangs, and grins, and bites in vain: 
460
  Bid the loud horns, in gaily warbling strains,
  Proclaim the felon’s fate; he dies, he dies. 
  Rejoice, ye scaly tribes, and leaping dance
  Above the wave, in sign of liberty
  Restored; the cruel tyrant is no more. 
     Rejoice, secure and blessed; did not as yet
  Remain, some of your own rapacious kind;
  And man, fierce man, with all his various wiles. 
     O happy, if ye knew your happy state,
  Ye rangers of the fields! whom Nature boon
470
  Cheers with her smiles, and every element
  Conspires to bless.  What, if no heroes frown
  From marble pedestals; nor Raphael’s works,
  Nor Titian’s lively tints, adorn our walls? 
  Yet these the meanest of us may behold;
  And at another’s cost may feast at will
  Our wondering eyes; what can the owner more? 
  But vain, alas! is wealth, not graced with power. 
  The flowery landscape, and the gilded dome,
  And vistas opening to the wearied eye,