The ascending bubbles mark his gloomy way. Quick fix the nets, and cut off his retreat Into the sheltering deeps. Ah, there he vents! The pack plunge headlong, and protended spears Menace destruction: while the troubled surge Indignant foams, and all the scaly kind, Affrighted, hide their heads. Wild tumult reigns, And loud uproar. Ah, there once more he vents! See, that bold hound has seized him; down they sink Together, lost: but soon shall he repent His rash assault. See, there escaped, he flies, Half-drown’d, and clambers up the slippery bank, With ooze and blood distain’d. Of all the brutes, Whether by nature formed, or by long use, This artful diver best can bear the want Of vital air. Unequal is the fight, Beneath the whelming element. Yet there He lives not long; but respiration needs, At proper intervals: again he vents; Again the crowd attack. That spear has pierced His neck; the crimson waves confess the wound. Fix’d is the bearded lance, unwelcome guest, Where’er he flies; with him it sinks beneath, With him it mounts; sure guide to every foe. Inly he groans; nor can his tender wound [Sidenote: BOOK IV THE CHASE v. 457-480.] Bear the cold stream. Lo! to yon sedgy bank He creeps, disconsolate: his numerous foes Surround him, hounds, and men. Pierced through and through, On pointed spears they lift him high in air; Wriggling, he hangs, and grins, and bites in vain. Bid the loud horns, in gaily-warbling strains, Proclaim the felon’s fate; he dies, he dies! Rejoice, ye scaly tribes; and, leaping, dance Above the wave, in sign of liberty Restored: the cruel tyrant is no more. Rejoice, secure and bless’d; did not as yet Remain, some of your own rapacious kind; And man, fierce man, with all his various wiles. O happy, if ye knew your happy state, Ye rangers of the fields! whom nature boon Cheers with her smiles, and every element Conspires to bless. What, if no heroes frown From marble pedestals; nor Raphael’s works, Nor Titian’s lively tints, adorn our walls? Yet these the meanest of us may behold; And, at another’s cost, may feast at will Our wondering eyes; what can the owner more? But vain, alas! is wealth, not graced with power. The flowery landscape, and the gilded dome, [Sidenote: BOOK IV THE CHASE v. 481-505.]