How, niggard of his strength, the wise old hound Hangs in the rear, till some important point Rouse all his diligence, or till the chase Sinking he finds; then to the head he springs, With thirst of glory fired, and wins the prize. Huntsman, take heed; they stop in full career: Yon crowding flocks, that at a distance gaze, Have haply foil’d the turf. See! that old hound, How busily he works, but dares not trust His doubtful sense; draw yet a wider ring. Hark! now again the chorus fills: as bells Sallied awhile, at once their peal renew, And high in air the tuneful thunder rolls. See, how they toss, with animated rage, Recovering all they lost!---- That eager haste Some doubling wile foreshows.--Ah, yet once more They’re check’d!--hold back with speed--on either hand They flourish round---- even yet persist--’tis right: Away they spring; the rustling stubbles bend Beneath the driving storm. Now the poor chase Begins to flag, to her last shifts reduced: From brake to brake she flies, and visits all Her well-known haunts, where once she ranged secure, With love and plenty bless’d. See! there she goes; [Sidenote: BOOK II THE CHASE v. 263-287.] She reels along, and, by her gait, betrays Her inward weakness. See, how black she looks! The sweat, that clogs the obstructed pores, scarce leaves A languid scent. And now, in open view, See, see! she flies; each eager hound exerts His utmost speed, and stretches every nerve. How quick she turns, their gaping jaws eludes, And yet a moment lives; till round enclosed By all the greedy pack, with infant screams She yields her breath, and there reluctant dies! So, when the furious Bacchanals assail’d Threïcian Orpheus, poor ill-fated bard! Loud was the cry; hills, woods, and Hebrus’ banks, Return’d their clamorous rage: distress’d he flies, Shifting from place to place, but flies in vain; For eager they pursue, till panting, faint, By noisy multitudes o’erpower’d, he sinks, To the relentless crowd a bleeding prey. The huntsman now, a deep incision made, Shakes out, with hands impure, and dashes down, Her reeking entrails, and yet quivering heart. These claim the pack; the bloody perquisite For all their toils. Stretch’d on the ground she lies, A mangled corse; in her dim glaring eyes Cold death exults, and stiffens every limb. [Sidenote: BOOK II THE CHASE v. 288-312.]