The Sport of Our c^ncestors 



Look back and view 

 The strange confusion of the vale below, 

 Where sore vexation reigns ; 



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.' 



SOMERVILE. 



Ha ! a check. — Nov^ for a moment's patience ! — We press 

 too close upon the hounds ! — Huntsman, stand still ! as 

 they want you not. — How admirably they spread ! how 

 wide they cast ! Is there a single hound that does not 

 try ? If there be, ne'er shall he hunt again. There, True- 

 man is on the scent — he feathers, yet still is doubtful — 

 'tis right ! How readily they join him ! See those wide- 

 casting hounds, how they fly forward to recover the ground 

 they have lost ! — Mind Lightning, how she dashes ; and 

 Mungo, hov/ he works ! Old Frantic, too, now pushes- 

 forward ; she knows, as well as we, the fox is sinking. 



' Ha ! yet he flies, nor yields 

 To black despair. But one loose more, and all 

 His wiles are vain. Hark ! thro' yon village now 

 The rattling clamour rings. The barns, the cots, 

 And leafless elms return the joyous sounds. 

 Thro' every homestall, and thro' ev'ry yard, 

 His midnight walks, panting, forlorn, he flies.' 



SOMERVILE. 



Huntsman ! at fault at last ? How far did you bring the 

 ii6 



