MR. THOMAS THORN HILL MORLAND 185 



And he who clears those ditches wide 

 Must needs a goodly steed bestride. 

 From Bampton to the river's bounds, 

 The race was run o'er pasture grounds ; 

 Yet many a horse of blood and bone 

 Was heard to cross it with a groan, 

 For blackthorns stiff the fields divide, 

 With watery ditch on either side. 

 By Lechlade village fences rise, 

 Of ev'ry sort and ev'ry size, 

 And frequent there the grievous fall 

 O'er slippery bank and crumbling wall ; 

 Some planted deep in cornfield stand, 

 A fix'd encumbrance on the land, 

 While others prove o'er post and rail 

 The merits of the sliding scale. 



Ah ! much it grieves the Muse to tell, 

 At Clanfield how Valentia fell, 

 He went they say like one bewitched, 

 Till headlong from the saddle pitch'd ; 

 There, reckless of the pain, he sighed 

 To think he might not onward ride ; 



Though fallen from his pride of place, 

 His heart was following still the chase ; 

 He bade his many friends forbear 

 The proffered aid nor tarry there ; 

 " O heed me not, but ride away ; 

 The Tar Wood fox must die to-day." 



Nor Valentia there alone, 



There too in mid career was thrown 



The Huntsman — in the breastplate swung 



His heels — his body earthward hung. 



With many a tug at neck and main. 



Struggling he reached his seat again : 



