Mortals bring down upon their head
The very miseries most they dread.
The only son of a rich knight
In hunting daily took delight.
The father living in alarm,
Lest he should come to any harm,
Dream'd that he saw him on the ground,
Rent with the lion's fatal wound.
The youth, allow'd to hunt no more,
Impatiently confinement bore.
Remarking, one unlucky day,
In the fine chamber where he lay,
A lion painted on the wall,
"Thou art," he cried, "the cause of all."
With idle rage the wall he struck,
And in his hand an iron stuck,
Which piercing bones and sinews through,
Fester'd and then a gangrene grew.
And thus the father's ill-tim'd care
Deprived him of his son and heir.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]