BOOK III THE CHASE v. 430-454.
Soft yielding to the step? All now is plain,
Plain as the strand, sea-laved, that stretches far
Beneath the rocky shore. Glades crossing glades,
The forest opens to our wondering view:
Such was the king’s command. Let tyrants fierce
Lay waste the world; his the more glorious part,
To check their pride; and when the brazen voice
Of war is hush’d, as erst victorious Rome,
To employ his station’d legions in the works
Of peace; to smooth the rugged wilderness,
To drain the stagnate fen, to raise the slope
Depending road, and to make gay the face
Of nature with the embellishments of art.
How melts my beating heart! as I behold
Each lovely nymph, our island’s boast and pride,
Push on the generous steed, that strokes along
O’er rough, o’er smooth; nor heeds the steepy hill,
Nor falters in the extended vale below;
Their garments loosely waving in the wind,
And all the flush of beauty in their cheeks:
While at their sides their pensive lovers wait,
Direct their dubious course; now chill’d with fear,
Solicitous, and now with love inflamed.
O grant, indulgent Heaven, no rising storm
May darken, with black wings, this glorious scene!
BOOK III THE CHASE v. 455-478.
Should some malignant power thus damp our joys,
Vain were the gloomy cave, such as, of old,
Betray’d to lawless love the Tyrian queen:
For Britain’s virtuous nymphs are chaste, as fair;
Spotless, unblamed, with equal triumph reign
In the dun gloom, as in the blaze of day.
Now the blown stag through woods, bogs, roads, and streams,
Has measured half the forest; but, alas!
He flies in vain; he flies not from his fears.
Though far he cast the lingering pack behind,
His haggard fancy still, with horror, views
The fell destroyer; still the fatal cry
Insults his ears, and wounds his trembling heart.
So the poor fury-haunted wretch, his hands
In guiltless blood distain’d, still seems to hear
The dying shrieks; and the pale threatening ghost
Moves as he moves, and, as he flies, pursues.
See here, his slot; up yon green hill he climbs,
Pants on its brow awhile; sadly looks back
On his pursuers, covering all the plain;
But, wrung with anguish, bears not long the sight,
Shoots down the steep, and sweats along the vale;
There mingles with the herd, where once he reign’d
Proud monarch of the groves; whose clashing beam
BOOK III THE CHASE v. 479-503.
His rivals awed, and whose exalted power
Was still rewarded with successful love.
But the base herd have learn’d the ways of men;
Averse they fly, or, with rebellious aim,
Chase him from thence: needless their impious deed,
The huntsman knows him by a thousand marks,
Black, and imboss’d; nor are his hounds deceived;
Too well distinguish these, and never leave
Their once devoted foe: familiar grows
His scent, and strong their appetite to kill.
Again he flies, and, with redoubled speed,
Skims o’er the lawn; still the tenacious crew
Hang on the track, aloud demand their prey,
And push him many a league. If haply then
Too far escaped, and the gay courtly train
Behind are cast, the huntsman’s clanging whip
Stops full their bold career: passive they stand,
Unmoved, an humble, an obsequious crowd,
As if, by stern Medusa, gazed to stones.
So, at their general’s voice, whole armies halt,
In full pursuit, and check their thirst of blood.
Soon, at the king’s command, like hasty streams
Damm’d up a while, they foam, and pour along
With fresh recruited might. The stag, who hoped
His foes were lost, now once more hears, astunn’d,
BOOK III THE CHASE v. 504-528.
The dreadful din: he shivers every limb;
He starts, he bounds; each bush presents a foe.
Press’d by the fresh relay, no pause allow’d,
Breathless and faint, he falters in his pace,
And lifts his weary limbs with pain, that scarce
Sustain their load: he pants, he sobs, appall’d;
Drops down his heavy head to earth, beneath
His cumbrous beams oppress’d. But if, perchance,
Some prying eye surprise him, soon he rears
Erect his towering front, bounds o’er the lawn,
With ill-dissembled vigour, to amuse
The knowing forester; who inly smiles
At his weak shifts, and unavailing frauds.
So midnight tapers waste their last remains,
Shine forth a while, and, as they blaze, expire.
From wood to wood redoubling thunders roll,
And bellow through the vales; the moving storm
Thickens amain, and loud triumphant shouts,
And horns, still warbling in each glade, prelude
To his approaching fate. And now, in view,
With hobbling gait, and high, exerts, amazed,
What strength is left: to the last dregs of life
Reduced, his spirits fail, on every side
Hemm’d in, besieged; not the least opening left
To gleaming hope, the unhappy’s last reserve.
BOOK III THE CHASE v. 529-553.
Where shall he turn? or whither fly? Despair
Gives courage to the weak. Resolved to die,
He fears no more, but rushes on his foes,
And deals his deaths around; beneath his feet
These grovelling lie, those, by his antlers gored,
Defile the ensanguined plain. Ah! see, distress’d,
He stands at bay against yon knotty trunk,
That covers well his rear, his front presents
An host of foes. O shun, ye noble train,
The rude encounter, and believe your lives
Your country’s due alone. As now aloof
They wing around, he finds his soul upraised,
To dare some great exploit; he charges home
Upon the broken pack, that, on each side,
Fly diverse; then, as o’er the turf he strains,
He vents the cooling stream, and, up the breeze,
Urges his course with eager violence:
Then takes the soil, and plunges in the flood
Precipitant; down the mid-stream he wafts
Along, till, like a ship distress’d, that runs
Into some winding creek, close to the verge
Of a small island, for his weary feet
Sure anchorage he finds, there skulks, immersed;
His nose, alone above the wave, draws in
The vital air; all else beneath the flood