The huntsman's hopes, and desolation spreads Through all the unpeopled kennel unrestrained. More fatal than the envenomed viper's bite; Or that Apulian[10] spider's poisonous sting, Healed by the pleasing antidote of sounds. When Sirius reigns, and the sun's parching beams Bake the dry gaping surface, visit thou Each even and morn, with quick observant eye, Thy panting pack. If in dark sullen mood, The gloating hound refuse his wonted meal, _200 Retiring to some close, obscure retreat, Gloomy, disconsolate: with speed remove The poor infectious wretch, and in strong chains Bind him suspected. Thus that dire disease Which art can't cure, wise caution may prevent. But this neglected, soon expect a change, A dismal change, confusion, frenzy, death. Or in some dark recess the senseless brute Sits sadly pining: deep melancholy, And black despair, upon his clouded brow _210 Hang lowering; from his half-opening jaws The clammy venom, and infectious froth, Distilling fall; and from his lungs inflamed, Malignant vapours taint the ambient air, Breathing perdition: his dim eyes are glazed, He droops his pensive head, his trembling limbs No more support his weight; abject he lies, Dumb, spiritless, benumbed; till death at last Gracious attends, and kindly brings relief. Or if outrageous grown, behold alas! _220 A yet more dreadful scene; his glaring eye Redden with fury, like some angry boar Churning he foams; and on his back erect His pointed bristles rise; his tail incurved He drops, and with harsh broken bowlings rends The poison-tainted air, with rough hoarse voice Incessant bays; and snuff's the infectious breeze; This way and that he stares aghast, and starts At his own shade; jealous, as if he deemed The world his foes. If haply toward the stream _230 He cast his roving eye, cold horror chills His soul; averse he flies, trembling, appalled. Now frantic to the kennel's utmost verge Raving he runs, and deals destruction round. The pack fly diverse; for whate'er he meets Vengeful he bites, and every bite is death. If now perchance through the weak fence escaped, Far up the wind he roves, with open mouth Inhales the cooling breeze, nor man, nor beast He spares, implacable. The hunter-horse, _240 Once kind associate of his sylvan toils, (Who haply now without the kennel's mound Crops the rank mead, and listening hears with joy The cheering cry, that morn and eve salutes His raptured sense) a wretched victim falls. Unhappy quadruped! no more, alas! Shall thy fond master with his voice applaud Thy gentleness, thy speed; or with his hand Stroke thy soft dappled sides, as he each day Visits thy stall, well pleased; no more shalt thou _250 With sprightly neighings, to the winding horn And the loud opening pack in concert joined, Glad his proud heart. For oh! the secret wound