Of the power of instinct in brutes.--Two remarkable instances in the hunting of the roebuck, and in the hare going to seat in the morning.--Of the variety of seats or forms of the hare, according to the change of the season, weather, or wind.--Description of the hare-hunting in all its parts, interspersed with rules to be observed by those who follow that chase.--Transition to the Asiatic way of hunting, particularly the magnificent manner of the Great Mogul, and other Tartarian princes, taken from Monsieur Bernier, and the history of Gengiskan the Great.--Concludes with a short reproof of tyrants and oppressors of mankind. Nor will it less delight the attentive sage To observe that instinct, which unerring guides The brutal race, which mimics reason's lore And oft transcends: heaven-taught, the roe-buck swift Loiters at ease before the driving pack And mocks their vain pursuit, nor far he flies But checks his ardour, till the steaming scent That freshens on the blade, provokes their rage. Urged to their speed, his weak deluded foes Soon flag fatigued; strained to excess each nerve, _10 Each slackened sinew fails; they pant, they foam; Then o'er the lawn he bounds, o'er the high hills Stretches secure, and leaves the scattered crowd To puzzle in the distant vale below. 'Tis instinct that directs the jealous hare To choose her soft abode: with step reversed She forms the doubling maze; then, ere the morn Peeps through the clouds, leaps to her close recess. As wand'ring shepherds on the Arabian plains No settled residence observe, but shift _20 Their moving camp, now, on some cooler hill With cedars crowned, court the refreshing breeze; And then, below, where trickling streams distil From some penurious source, their thirst allay, And feed their fainting flocks: so the wise hares Oft quit their seats, lest some more curious eye Should mark their haunts, and by dark treacherous wiles Plot their destruction; or perchance in hopes Of plenteous forage, near the ranker mead, Or matted blade, wary, and close they sit. _30 When spring shines forth, season of love and joy, In the moist marsh, 'mong beds of rushes hid, They cool their boiling blood: when Summer suns Bake the cleft earth, to thick wide-waving fields Of corn full-grown, they lead their helpless young: But when autumnal torrents, and fierce rains Deluge the vale, in the dry crumbling bank Their forms they delve, and cautiously avoid