Soft yielding to the step? All now is plain, Plain as the strand, sea-laved, that stretches far Beneath the rocky shore. Glades crossing glades, The forest opens to our wondering view: Such was the king’s command. Let tyrants fierce Lay waste the world; his the more glorious part, To check their pride; and when the brazen voice Of war is hush’d, as erst victorious Rome, To employ his station’d legions in the works Of peace; to smooth the rugged wilderness, To drain the stagnate fen, to raise the slope Depending road, and to make gay the face Of nature with the embellishments of art. How melts my beating heart! as I behold Each lovely nymph, our island’s boast and pride, Push on the generous steed, that strokes along O’er rough, o’er smooth; nor heeds the steepy hill, Nor falters in the extended vale below; Their garments loosely waving in the wind, And all the flush of beauty in their cheeks: While at their sides their pensive lovers wait, Direct their dubious course; now chill’d with fear, Solicitous, and now with love inflamed. O grant, indulgent Heaven, no rising storm May darken, with black wings, this glorious scene! [Sidenote: BOOK III THE CHASE v. 455-478.] Should some malignant power thus damp our joys, Vain were the gloomy cave, such as, of old, Betray’d to lawless love the Tyrian queen: For Britain’s virtuous nymphs are chaste, as fair; Spotless, unblamed, with equal triumph reign In the dun gloom, as in the blaze of day. Now the blown stag through woods, bogs, roads, and streams, Has measured half the forest; but, alas! He flies in vain; he flies not from his fears. Though far he cast the lingering pack behind, His haggard fancy still, with horror, views The fell destroyer; still the fatal cry Insults his ears, and wounds his trembling heart. So the poor fury-haunted wretch, his hands In guiltless blood distain’d, still seems to hear The dying shrieks; and the pale threatening ghost Moves as he moves, and, as he flies, pursues. See here, his slot; up yon green hill he climbs, Pants on its brow awhile; sadly looks back On his pursuers, covering all the plain; But, wrung with anguish, bears not long the sight, Shoots down the steep, and sweats along the vale; There mingles with the herd, where once he reign’d Proud monarch of the groves; whose clashing beam [Sidenote: BOOK III THE CHASE v. 479-503.]