His rivals awed, and whose exalted power Was still rewarded with successful love. But the base herd have learn’d the ways of men; Averse they fly, or, with rebellious aim, Chase him from thence: needless their impious deed, The huntsman knows him by a thousand marks, Black, and imboss’d; nor are his hounds deceived; Too well distinguish these, and never leave Their once devoted foe: familiar grows His scent, and strong their appetite to kill. Again he flies, and, with redoubled speed, Skims o’er the lawn; still the tenacious crew Hang on the track, aloud demand their prey, And push him many a league. If haply then Too far escaped, and the gay courtly train Behind are cast, the huntsman’s clanging whip Stops full their bold career: passive they stand, Unmoved, an humble, an obsequious crowd, As if, by stern Medusa, gazed to stones. So, at their general’s voice, whole armies halt, In full pursuit, and check their thirst of blood. Soon, at the king’s command, like hasty streams Damm’d up a while, they foam, and pour along With fresh recruited might. The stag, who hoped His foes were lost, now once more hears, astunn’d, [Sidenote: BOOK III THE CHASE v. 504-528.] The dreadful din: he shivers every limb; He starts, he bounds; each bush presents a foe. Press’d by the fresh relay, no pause allow’d, Breathless and faint, he falters in his pace, And lifts his weary limbs with pain, that scarce Sustain their load: he pants, he sobs, appall’d; Drops down his heavy head to earth, beneath His cumbrous beams oppress’d. But if, perchance, Some prying eye surprise him, soon he rears Erect his towering front, bounds o’er the lawn, With ill-dissembled vigour, to amuse The knowing forester; who inly smiles At his weak shifts, and unavailing frauds. So midnight tapers waste their last remains, Shine forth a while, and, as they blaze, expire. From wood to wood redoubling thunders roll, And bellow through the vales; the moving storm Thickens amain, and loud triumphant shouts, And horns, still warbling in each glade, prelude To his approaching fate. And now, in view, With hobbling gait, and high, exerts, amazed, What strength is left: to the last dregs of life Reduced, his spirits fail, on every side Hemm’d in, besieged; not the least opening left To gleaming hope, the unhappy’s last reserve. [Sidenote: BOOK III THE CHASE v. 529-553.]