"Running, the monster comes, and bears his snout In guise of brach, who enters on the trail.
We who behold him fly (a helpless rout), Wherever terror drives, with visage pale.
'Tis little comfort, that he is without Eye-sight, who winds his plunder in the gale, Better than aught possest of scent and sight:
And wing and plume were needed for our flight.