BOOK III THE CHASE v. 62-84.
Behold the just avenger, swift to seize
His forfeit head, and thirsting for his blood.
Heavens! what melodious strains! how beat our hearts,
Big with tumultuous joy! the loaded gales
Breathe harmony; and, as the tempest drives,
From wood to wood, through every dark recess,
The forest thunders, and the mountains shake.
The chorus swells; less various, and less sweet,
The trilling notes, when, in those very groves,
The feather’d choristers salute the spring,
And every bush in concert joins: or, when
The master’s hand, in modulated air,
Bids the loud organ breathe, and all the powers
Of musick, in one instrument combine
An universal minstrelsy. And now
In vain each earth he tries; the doors are barr’d,
Impregnable; nor is the covert safe;
He pants for purer air. Hark! what loud shouts
Re-echo through the groves!—he breaks away!
Shrill horns proclaim his flight. Each straggling hound
Strains o’er the lawn, to reach the distant pack.
’Tis triumph all, and joy. Now, my brave youths,
Now give a loose to the clean generous steed;
BOOK III THE CHASE v. 85-108.
Flourish the whip, nor spare the galling spur:
But, in the madness of delight, forget
Your fears! Far o’er the rocky hills we range,
And dangerous our course; but, in the brave,
True courage never fails: in vain the stream
In foaming eddies whirls; in vain the ditch,
Wide-gaping, threatens death: the craggy steep,
Where the poor dizzy shepherd crawls with care,
And clings to every twig, gives us no pain;
But down we sweep, as stoops the falcon bold
To pounce his prey: then up the opponent hill,
By the swift motion slung, we mount aloft.
So ships, in winter seas, now sliding, sink
Adown the steepy wave, then, toss’d on high,
Ride on the billows, and defy the storm.
What lengths we pass! where will the wandering chase
Lead us, bewilder’d! smooth as swallows skim
The new-shorn mead, and far more swift, we fly.
See, my brave pack! how to the head they press,
Justling in close array; then, more diffuse,
Obliquely wheel, while, from their opening mouths,
The vollied thunder breaks. So, when the cranes
Their annual voyage steer, with wanton wing
Their figure oft they change, and their loud clang
BOOK III THE CHASE v. 109-132.
From cloud to cloud rebounds. How far behind
The hunter-crew, wide-straggling o’er the plain!
The panting courser now, with trembling nerves,
Begins to reel; urged by the goring spur,
Makes many a faint effort: he snorts, he foams;
The big round drops run trickling down his sides,
With sweat and blood distain’d. Look back, and view
The strange confusion of the vale below,
Where sour vexation reigns: see yon poor jade;
In vain the impatient rider frets and swears,
With galling spurs harrows his mangled sides;
He can no more; his stiff unpliant limbs,
Rooted in earth, unmoved and fix’d he stands,
For every cruel curse returns a groan,
And sobs, and faints, and dies! who, without grief,
Can view that pamper’d steed, his master’s joy,
His minion, and his daily care, well clothed,
Well fed with every nicer cate; no cost,
No labour, spared; who, when the flying chase
Broke from the copse, without a rival led
The numerous train; now, a sad spectacle
Of pride brought low, and humbled insolence,
Drove like a pannier’d ass, and scourged along!
While these, with loosen’d reins and dangling heels,
BOOK III THE CHASE v. 133-155.
Hang on their reeling palfreys, that scarce bear
Their weights; another, in the treacherous bog,
Lies floundering, half ingulf’d. What biting thoughts
Torment the abandon’d crew! Old age laments
His vigour spent: the tall, plump, brawny youth,
Curses his cumbrous bulk; and envies, now,
The short pygmean race, he whilom kenn’d,
With proud insulting leer. A chosen few,
Alone, the sport enjoy, nor droop beneath
Their pleasing toils. Here, huntsman! from this highth
Observe yon birds of prey; if I can judge,
’Tis there the villain lurks: they hover round,
And claim him as their own. Was I not right?
See! there he creeps along; his brush he drags,
And sweeps the mire impure: from his wide jaws
His tongue unmoisten’d hangs; symptoms too sure
Of sudden death. Ha! yet he flies, nor yields
To black despair: but one loose more, and all
His wiles are vain. Hark, through yon village now
The rattling clamour rings. The barns, the cots,
And leafless elms, return the joyous sounds.
Through every homestall, and through every yard,
His midnight walks, panting, forlorn, he flies;
BOOK III THE CHASE v. 156-180.
Through every hole he sneaks, through every jakes,
Plunging, he wades, besmear’d; and fondly hopes
In a superiour stench to lose his own:
But, faithful to the track, the unerring hounds,
With peals of echoing vengeance, close pursue.
And now, distress’d, no sheltering covert near,
Into the hen-roost creeps, whose walls, with gore
Distain’d, attest his guilt. There, villain! there
Expect thy fate deserved. And soon from thence
The pack, inquisitive, with clamour loud,
Drag out their trembling prize, and, on his blood,
With greedy transport feast. In bolder notes
Each sounding horn proclaims the felon dead;
And all the assembled village shouts for joy.
The farmer, who beholds his mortal foe
Stretch’d at his feet, applauds the glorious deed,
And, grateful, calls us to a short repast:
In the full glass the liquid amber smiles,
Our native product; and his good old mate,
With choicest viands, heaps the liberal board,
To crown our triumphs, and reward our toils.
Here must the instructive Muse, but with respect,
Censure that numerous pack, that crowd of state,
With which the vain profusion of the great
Covers the lawn, and shakes the trembling copse.