Yet without guilt: for the green herb, alone, Unequal to sustain man’s labouring race, Now every moving thing that lived on earth, Was granted him for food. So just is Heaven, To give us in proportion to our wants. Or chance, or industry, in after-times, Some few improvements made; but short, as yet, Of due perfection. In this isle, remote, Our painted ancestors were slow to learn, To arms devote, of the politer arts Nor skill’d, nor studious; till, from Neustria’s coasts, Victorious William to more decent rules Subdued our Saxon fathers, taught to speak The proper dialect; with horn and voice To cheer the busy hound, whose well-known cry His listening peers approve with joint acclaim. From him successive huntsmen learn’d to join, In bloody social leagues, the multitude Dispersed, to size, to sort their various tribes, To rear, feed, hunt, and discipline the pack. Hail, happy Britain! highly favour’d isle, And Heaven’s peculiar care; to thee ’tis given To train the sprightly steed, more fleet than those Begot by winds, or the celestial breed That bore the great Pelides through the press [Sidenote: BOOK I THE CHASE v. 89-113.] Of heroes arm’d, and broke their crowded ranks; Which, proudly neighing, with the sun begins Cheerful his course; and ere his beams decline, Has measured half thy surface unfatigued. In thee alone, fair land of liberty! Is bred the perfect hound, in scent and speed As yet unrivall’d; while in other climes Their virtue fails, a weak degenerate race. In vain malignant steams, and winter fogs, Load the dull air, and hover round our coasts; The huntsman, ever gay, robust, and bold, Defies the noxious vapour, and confides In this delightful exercise, to raise His drooping head, and cheer his heart with joy. Ye vigorous youths, by smiling fortune bless’d With large demesnes, hereditary wealth, Heap’d copious by your wise forefathers’ care, Hear, and attend; while I the means reveal To enjoy those pleasures, for the weak too strong, Too costly for the poor: to rein the steed Swift-stretching o’er the plain, to cheer the pack, Opening in concerts of harmonious joy, But breathing death. What though the gripe severe Of brazen-fisted time, and slow disease Creeping through every vein, and nerve unstrung, [Sidenote: BOOK I THE CHASE v. 114-138.]