Sinking he finds ; then to the head he springs, 

 With thirst of glory fir'd, and wins the prize. 

 Huntsman, take heed ; they stop in full career. 

 Yon crowding flocks, that at a distance graze, 

 Have haply foil'd the turf. See ! that old hound, 

 How busily he works, but dares not trust 

 His doubtful sense ; draw yet a wider ring. 

 Hark ! now again the chorus fills. As bells 

 Sally'd a while at once their peal renew, 

 And high in air the tuneful thunder rolls. 

 See, how they toss, with animated rage 

 Recov'ring all they lost ! — That eager haste 

 Some doubling wile foreshews. — Ah ! yet once more 

 They're check'd — hold back with speed — on either 



hand 

 They flourish round — ev'n yet persist — 'tis right, 

 Away they spring ; the rustling stubbles bend 

 Beneath the driving storm. Now the poor chace 

 Begins to flag, to her last shifts redue'd. 

 From brake to brake she flies, and visits all 

 Her well-known haunts, where once she rang'd 



secure, 

 With love and plenty blest. See ! there she goes, 

 She reels along, and by her gait betrays 

 Her inward weakness. See, how black she looks ! 

 The sweat that clogs th' obstructed pores, scarce 



leaves 

 A languid scent. And now in open view, 

 See, see, she flies ! each eager hound exerts 



5° 



