Hang on their reeling palfreys, that scarce bear Their weights; another, in the treacherous bog, Lies floundering, half ingulf’d. What biting thoughts Torment the abandon’d crew! Old age laments His vigour spent: the tall, plump, brawny youth, Curses his cumbrous bulk; and envies, now, The short pygmean race, he whilom kenn’d, With proud insulting leer. A chosen few, Alone, the sport enjoy, nor droop beneath Their pleasing toils. Here, huntsman! from this highth Observe yon birds of prey; if I can judge, ’Tis there the villain lurks: they hover round, And claim him as their own. Was I not right? See! there he creeps along; his brush he drags, And sweeps the mire impure: from his wide jaws His tongue unmoisten’d hangs; symptoms too sure Of sudden death. Ha! yet he flies, nor yields To black despair: but one loose more, and all His wiles are vain. Hark, through yon village now The rattling clamour rings. The barns, the cots, And leafless elms, return the joyous sounds. Through every homestall, and through every yard, His midnight walks, panting, forlorn, he flies; [Sidenote: BOOK III THE CHASE v. 156-180.] Through every hole he sneaks, through every jakes, Plunging, he wades, besmear’d; and fondly hopes In a superiour stench to lose his own: But, faithful to the track, the unerring hounds, With peals of echoing vengeance, close pursue. And now, distress’d, no sheltering covert near, Into the hen-roost creeps, whose walls, with gore Distain’d, attest his guilt. There, villain! there Expect thy fate deserved. And soon from thence The pack, inquisitive, with clamour loud, Drag out their trembling prize, and, on his blood, With greedy transport feast. In bolder notes Each sounding horn proclaims the felon dead; And all the assembled village shouts for joy. The farmer, who beholds his mortal foe Stretch’d at his feet, applauds the glorious deed, And, grateful, calls us to a short repast: In the full glass the liquid amber smiles, Our native product; and his good old mate, With choicest viands, heaps the liberal board, To crown our triumphs, and reward our toils. Here must the instructive Muse, but with respect, Censure that numerous pack, that crowd of state, With which the vain profusion of the great Covers the lawn, and shakes the trembling copse. [Sidenote: BOOK III THE CHASE v. 181-204.]