With horror seized! The wither’d grass, that clings Around her head, of the same russet hue, Almost deceived my sight, had not her eyes, With life full beaming, her vain wiles betray’d. At distance draw thy pack, let all be hush’d, No clamour loud, no frantick joy be heard, Lest the wild hound run gadding o’er the plain, Untractable, nor hear thy chiding voice. Now gently put her off; see how direct To her known meuse she flies! Here, huntsman, bring, But without hurry, all thy jolly hounds, And calmly lay them in. How low they stoop, And seem to plough the ground! then, all at once, With greedy nostrils, snuff the fuming steam, That glads their fluttering hearts. As winds, let loose From the dark caverns of the blustering god, They burst away, and sweep the dewy lawn. Hope gives them wings, while she’s spurr’d on by fear. The welkin rings; men, dogs, hills, rocks, and woods, In the full concert join. Now, my brave youths, Stripp’d for the chase, give all your souls to joy! See how their coursers, than the mountain roe More fleet, the verdant carpet skim; thick clouds Snorting they breathe, their shining hoofs scarce print The grass unbruised; with emulation fired, [Sidenote: BOOK II THE CHASE v. 164-188.] They strain to lead the field, top the barr’d gate, O’er the deep ditch exulting bound, and brush The thorny-twining hedge: the riders bend O’er their arch’d necks; with steady hands, by turns Indulge their speed, or moderate their rage. Where are their sorrows, disappointments, wrongs, Vexations, sickness, cares? All, all are gone, And with the panting winds lag far behind. Huntsman! her gait observe; if in wide rings She wheel her mazy way, in the same round Persisting still, she’ll foil the beaten track. But, if she fly, and with the favouring wind Urge her bold course, less intricate thy task; Push on thy pack. Like some poor exiled wretch, The frighted chase leaves her late dear abodes, O’er plains remote she stretches far away, Ah, never to return! for greedy death Hovering exults, secure to seize his prey. Hark! from yon covert, where those towering oaks Above the humble copse aspiring rise, What glorious triumphs burst, in every gale, Upon our ravish’d ears! the hunters shout, The clanging horns swell their sweet-winding notes; The pack, wide-opening, load the trembling air With various melody; from tree to tree [Sidenote: BOOK II THE CHASE v. 189-213.]