XLIX.
Our father ceased, and with keen relish he
Refreshed his wearied frame in that lone dell;
Ah! little can his far posterity
Conceive the pleasures of that frugal meal;
For naught he knew of lavish luxury,
And toil and fast had done their office well;
No costliest viands culled from land and sea
Could half so sweet to pampered palates be.
L.
His hunger sated with his simple fare,
He would, in weariness, have sought repose;
But at the kindling blaze, heard wide and far,
The howlings drear of forest monsters rose;
And, lured around him by the vivid glare,
Came darkling with light foot along the snows
Whole packs of wolves, from their far mountain lair,
And the fierce cat, which scarce the blaze might scare.
LI.
Growling they come, and in dark groups they stand,
Show the white fang, and roll the brightening eye;
Till urged by famine's rage, the shaggy band
Seemed even the flame's bright terrors to defy;
Then mid the group he hurled the blazing brand;
Swift they disperse, and raise the scattered cry;
But, rallying soon, back to the siege they came,
And in their rage scarce faltered at the flame.
LII.
Yet Williams deemed that persecution took
A form in them less odious than in men;
He on their proper solitude had broke,—
Ay, and had trespassed on their native glen;
