"But vainly doth a man contend with Fate!
My father had less pity on his son
Than wild things of the woodland desolate.
'Tis said that ere the Autumn day was done
A great she-bear, that in these rocks did wonn,
Beheld a sleeping babe she did convey
Down to a den beheld not of the sun,
The cavern where her own soft litter lay.
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