Fitly, o'er Libya's horrid sand,
The javelin arms the Huntsman's hand.
Lo! where the mangled traveller lies,
Drawn by the false Hyaena's cries;
And dreadful stalking o'er the plain,
The Lion shakes his brindled main.
But why shall barbarous Rage invade
The tenant of yon peaceful shade,
While issuing with the morning's dawn,
Playful she prints the dewy lawn?
O why that hostile pomp prepare
To vex the timorous harmless hare?
As if some monster, yet untam'd,
Single a host of Heroes claim'd:
While Echo o'er the hills resounds
Horsemen, and steeds, and horns, and hounds.