No storms arise to screen his flight;
’Tis long till interrupting night;
The breathing South his sentence gives,
And not an hour the caitiff lives!
Through woods, and hills, and vales, and brakes,
Needwood with general transport shakes.
Mark how the pack diffusely spread,
And shew me, if you can, their head!
’Tis here—’tis there—now onward far
Streams down the vales irregular.