Ever triumphant! whose victorious charms, Without the needless aid of high descent, Had awed mankind, and taught the world’s great lords To bow, and sue for grace. But who is he, Fresh as a rose-bud newly blown, and fair As opening lilies, on whom every eye With joy and admiration dwells? See, see! He reins his docile barb with manly grace. Is it Adonis, for the chase array’d? Or Britain’s second hope? Hail, blooming youth! May all your virtues, with your years, improve, Till, in consummate worth, you shine the pride Of these our days, and, to succeeding times, A bright example. As his guard of mutes On the great sultan wait, with eyes deject, And fix’d on earth, no voice, no sound, is heard Within the wide serail, but all is hush’d, And awful silence reigns; thus stand the pack, Mute, and unmoved, and cowering low to earth, While pass the glittering court, and royal pair: So disciplined those hounds, and so reserved, Whose honour ’tis to glad the hearts of kings: But soon the winding horn, and huntsman’s voice, Let loose the general chorus; far around Joy spreads its wings, and the gay morning smiles. [Sidenote: BOOK III THE CHASE v. 405-429.] Unharbour’d now, the royal stag forsakes His wonted lair; he shakes his dappled sides, And tosses high his beamy head; the copse Beneath his antlers bends. What doubling shifts He tries! not more the wily hare: in these Would still persist, did not the full-mouth’d pack, With dreadful concert, thunder in his rear. The woods reply, the hunter’s cheering shouts Float through the glades, and the wide forest rings. How merrily they chant! their nostrils deep Inhale the grateful steam. Such is the cry, And such the harmonious din, the soldier deems The battle kindling, and the statesman grave Forgets his weighty cares; each age, each sex, In the wild transport joins; luxuriant joy, And pleasure in excess, sparkling, exult On every brow, and revel unrestrained. How happy art thou, man! when thou’rt no more Thyself; when all the pangs, that grind thy soul, In rapture, and in sweet oblivion lost, Yield a short interval, and ease from pain! See, the swift courser strains, his shining hoofs Securely beat the solid ground. Who now The dangerous pitfall fears, with tangling heath High-overgrown? or who the quivering bog, [Sidenote: BOOK III THE CHASE v. 430-454.]