Him the stern tyrant with his iron scourge
Annoys not, nor the dire oppressive weight
Of galling chain; but, when the blushing morn
Purples the East, with eager transport wild
O’er hill, o’er valley, on his panting steed
He bounds exulting, as in full career
With horns, and hounds, and thund’ring shouts, he drives
The flying stag; or when the dusky shades
Of eve, advancing, veil the darken’d sky,
To neighbouring tavern, blithsome, he resorts