In earliest hours of dark unhooded morn, Ere yet one rosy cloud bespeaks the dawn, Whilst far abroad THE FOX pursues his prey, He's doom'd to risk the perils of the day, From his strong hold block'd out; perhaps to bleed, Or owe his life to fortune or to speed. For now the pack, impatient rushing on, Range through the darkest coverts one by one; Trace every spot; whilst down each noble glade That guides the eye beneath a changeful shade, The loit'ring sportsman feels th' instinctive flame, And checks his steed to mark the springing game. Midst intersecting cuts and winding ways The huntsman cheers his dogs, and anxious strays Where every narrow riding, even shorn, Gives back the echo of his mellow horn: Till fresh and lightsome, every power untried, The starting fugitive leaps by his side, His lifted finger to his ear he plies, And the view halloo bids a chorus rise Of dogs quick-mouth'd, and shouts that mingle loud, As bursting thunder rolls from cloud to cloud. With ears erect, and chest of vigorous mould, O'er ditch, o'er fence, unconquerably bold, The shining courser lengthens every bound, And his strong foot-locks suck the moisten'd ground, As from the confines of the wood they pour, And joyous villages partake the roar. O'er heath far stretch'd, or down, or valley low. The stiff-limb'd peasant, glorying in the show, Pursues in vain; where youth itself soon tires, Spite of the transports that the chace inspires; For who unmounted long can charm the eye, Or hear the music of the leading cry? Poor faithful TROUNCER! thou canst lead no more; All thy fatigues and all thy triumphs o'er! Triumphs of worth, whose honorary fame Was still to follow true the hunted game; Beneath enormous oaks, Britannia's boast, In thick impenetrable coverts lost, When the warm pack in fault'ring silence stood, Thine was the note that rous'd the list'ning wood, Rekindling every joy with tenfold force, Through all the mazes of the tainted course. Still foremost thou the dashing stream to cross, And tempt along the animated horse; Foremost o'er fen or level mead to pass, And sweep the show'ring dew-drops from the grass; Then bright emerging from the mist below To climb the woodland hill's exulting brow. Pride of thy race! with worth far less than thine, Full many human leaders daily shine! Less faith, less constancy, less gen'rous zeal!... Then no disgrace mine humble verse shall feel; Where not one lying line to riches bows, Or poison'd sentiment from rancour flows; Nor flowers are strewn around Ambition's car:... An honest dog's a nobler theme by far. Each sportsman heard the tidings with a sigh, When Death's cold touch had stopt his tuneful cry; And though high deeds, and fair exalted praise, In memory liv'd, and flow'd in rustic lays, Short was the strain of monumental woe: "_Foxes, rejoice! here buried lies your foe.[A]_" [Footnote A: Inscribed on a stone in Euston Park wall.]