The rise, which shut the field away, Showed him the vale’s great map spread out, The down’s lean flank and thrusting snout, Pale pastures, red-brown plough, dark wood, Blue distance, still as solitude, Glitter of water here and there, The trees so delicately bare, The dark green gorse and bright green holly. “O glorious God,” he said, “how jolly!” And there downhill two fields ahead The lolloping red dog-fox sped Over Poor Pastures to the brook. He grasped these things in one swift look, Then dived into the bullfinch heart Through thorns that ripped his sleeves apart And skutched new blood upon his brow. “His point’s Lark’s Leybourne Covers now,” Said Robin, landing with a grunt. “Forrard, my beautifuls!” The hunt Followed downhill to race with him, White Rabbit, with his swallow’s skim, Drew within hail. “Quick burst, Sir Peter.” “A traveller. Nothing could be neater. Making for Godsdown Clumps, I take it?” “Lark’s Leybourne, sir, if he can make it. Forrard!” Bill Ridden thundered down, His big mouth grinned beneath his frown, The hounds were going away from horses. He saw the glint of watercourses, Yell Brook and Wittold’s Dyke, ahead, His horseshoes sliced the green turf red. Young Cothill’s chaser rushed and past him, Nob Manor, running next, said “Blast him! The poet chap who thinks he rides.” Hugh Colway’s mare made straking strides Across the grass, the Colonel next, Then Squire, volleying oaths, and vext, Fighting his hunter for refusing; Bell Ridden, like a cutter cruising, Sailing the grass; then Cob on Warder, Then Minton Price upon Marauder; Ock Gurney with his eyes intense, Burning as with a different sense, His big mouth muttering glad “By damns!” Then Pete, crouched down from head to hams, Rapt like a saint, bright focussed flame; Bennett, with devils in his wame, Chewing black cud and spitting slanting; Copse scattering jests and Stukely ranting; Sal Ridden taking line from Dansey; Long Robert forcing Necromancy; A dozen more with bad beginnings; Myngs riding hard to snatch an innings. A wild last hound with high shrill yelps Smacked forrard with some whipthong skelps. Then last of all, at top of rise, The crowd on foot, all gasps and eyes; The run up hill had winded them. * * * * *