62 The Chase 



O'er those meadows speeding on, 



He near'd the bridgeway of St. John ; 



He paused a moment on the bank, 



His footsteps in the ripple sank, 



He felt how cold, he saw how strong 



The rapid river rollM along ; 



Then turn'd away, as if to say, 



" All those who like to cross it may." 



The Huntsman, though he view'd him back, 



View'd him too late to turn the pack. 



Which o'er the tainted meadow prest, 



And reach'd the river all abreast ; 



In with one plunge, one billowy splash, 



In — altogether — in they dash. 



Together stem the wintry tide. 



Then shake themselves on t'other side ! 



" Hark, hallo back ! " that loud halloo 



Then eager and more eager grew. 



Till every hound recrossing o'er, 



Stoop'd forward to the scent once more ; 



Nor further aid, throughout the day. 



From Huntsman or from Whip had they. 



Away ! away ! uncheck'd in pace. 



O'er grass and fallow swept the chace ; 



To hounds, to horses, or to men. 



No child's play was the struggle then ; 



A trespasser on Milward's ground. 



He climb'd the pale that fenc'd it round ; 



Then close by Little Hemel sped. 



To Fairford pointing straight ahead. 



Though now, the pack approaching nigh. 



He heard his death-note in the cry. 



They view'd him, and then seem'd their race 



The very lightning of the chace ! 



