THOUGHTS UPON HUNTINCc 13^ 



The blood that from the heart incessant rolls 



In many a crimson tide, then here aiid there 



In smaller rills disparted, as it flows 



Propell'd, the serous particles evade, 



Thro* th' open pores, and with the ambient air 



jEntangling mix. As fuming vapours rise, 



And hang upon the gently.purling brook, 



There, by the incumbent atmosphere compress'd. 



The panting chase grows v/arraer as he flies, 



And thro' the net-work of the skin perspires ; 



Leaves a long — steaming — trail behind ; which by 



The cooler air condens'd, remains, unless 



By some rude storm dispers'd, or rarefied 



By the meridian sun's intenser heat. 



To every shrub the warm effluvia cling, 



Hang on the grass, impregnate earth and skies. 



.With nostrils opening wide, o'er hill, o'er dale 



The vig'rous hounds pursue, with ev'ry breach 



Inhale the grateful steam, quick pleasures sting 



Their tingling nerves, while they their thanks repay. 



And in triumphant melody confess 



The titillating joy. Thus, on the air 



Depend the hunter's hopes,'* 



I CANNOT agree with Mr. Somerville, in thinking that 

 scent depends on the air only : it depends also on the soil. 

 Without doubt, the best scent is that which is occasioned 

 by the effluvia, as he calls it, or particles of scent, which 

 are constantly perspiring from the game as it runs, and are 



