Classic Poem

As the shy Hind, the soft-eyed gentle Brute,
Now moves, now stops, approaching by degrees
At length emerges from the shelt'ring Trees,
Lur'd by her Hunter with the shepherd's Flute
Whose music travelling on the twilight Breeze,
When all beside was mute,
She oft had heard unharm'd and ever loves to hear,
She, fearful Beast! but that no sound of Fear.