Clad with its purple royalty,
Once more’s the throne of infant day,
And all th’ horizon round looks gay.
The horn deep-ton’d the huntsman fills,
The strains re-echo from the hills;
Unkennell’d for the bloody chase,
Impatient rush the babbling race:
Some, widely stretching o’er the plain,
Vocif’rous chaunt the heedless train;
These stretch their limbs, while others bound