Where are their sorrows, disappointments, wrongs,
Vexations, sickness, cares? All, all are gone,
And with the panting winds lag far behind.
Huntsman! her gait observe; if in wide rings
She wheel her mazy way, in the same round
Persisting still, she’ll foil the beaten track;
But if she fly, and with the favoring wind
Urge her bold course, less intricate thy task:
Push on thy pack. Like some poor exil’d wretch,
The frighted Chase leaves her late dear abodes;