When the sly Prowler stole adown the wind,
And hop’d he left no tell-tale scent behind.
Vain hope! your swift staunch hounds the search began,
To right and left their hurrying numbers ran,
Till found the taint, in streaming files they hie,
And in one shrill, continuous, clamouring cry,
To which th’ accordant Forest joyous rings,
Hang on his rear, while o’er the vale he springs,
Dash through the rhimy glades, and round the hills
As when receiving tribute brooks and rills