With horror seiz’d! The withered grass that clings
Around her head, of the same russet hue,
Almost deceiv’d my sight, had not her eyes,
With life full beaming, her vain wiles betray’d.
At distance draw thy pack; let all be hush’d—
No clamor loud, no frantic joy be heard,
Lest the wild hound run gadding o’er the plain
Untractable, nor hear thy chiding voice.
Now gently put her off; see how direct
To her known mew she flies! Here, huntsman, bring