Shooting along the rapid slide.
Who, ere the misty, morn is grey,
To some high covert hark’st away;
While Sport, on lofty courser borne,
In concert winds his echoing horn
With the deeply thund’ring hounds,
Whose clangour wild, and joyful sounds.
While echo swells the doubting cry,
Shake the woods with harmony.
How does my eager bosom glow