IN FRENCH FIELDS.
243
SONNET.
When the white victim from his meadows brought
Unto the altar through the court is led,
Never in pride is lifted up his head,
Though garlands wreathe his horns with gold inwrought.
Incense and songs are vain; he heeds them not,
Nor the rich linen on his flanks outspread;
The sharpening axe he sees, a phantom dread
Somewhere afar, and shudders at his lot.
Sullen, with eye oblique, against his chain
He strives; the pomp around seems worse than vain.
Some instinct makes him in advance to feel
The Aruspices' fingers in his heart:
Death's hideous face no splendours can conceal,
Nor gold, nor flowers; we see the shade, and start.
