We urge those toils with glee. E’en the broad sun,
In his meridian brightness, shall not check
Our steady labour; for some rushy pool,
Some hollow willowy bank, the skulking birds
May then conceal, which our stanch dogs shall pierce,
And drive them clam’ring forth. Those tow’ring rocks,
With nodding wood o’erhung, that faintly break
Upon the straining eye, descending deep,
A hollow basin form, the which receives
The foaming torrent from above. Around