AND AMERICAN RURAL SPORTS. 
73 
FOX HUNTING. 
DEATH OF THE FOX . 
[Plate VII. Vol. 3.] 
The morn is rising bright and red, 
(As Venus blushed from Neptune’s bed,) 
And throwing by her dusky veil, 
Descends into the lowland dale. 
Light mist-wreaths round her forehead curl, 
Her neck is gemmed with liquid pearl ; 
And hosts of fragrant flowers display 
Their beauties in her shining way. 
The radiant stars that came with night 
To sing the chorus of the sky, 
Now “ pale their ineffectual” light, 
Before the day-god’s beaming eye, 
And shrinking one by one away, 
Leave the blue vault without a stain, 
With here and there a cloud to stray 
Like lonely wanderers o’er the plain. 
The rosy tinge that marks the east 
With beauty art can never show. 
With morning’s rise is still increased, 
Until it breaks into one glow 
Of rich and burning golden light, 
T oo glorious for the dazzled sight. 
How still is all the sleeping earth ! 
And not a sound in heaven is heard, 
Save now and then a note of mirth 
Bursting from some awakening bird, 
That in the ecstacy of life. 
Up from its leafy quiet springs, 
And with its mate in lovely strife, 
Soars in the joyous beam, and sings. 
All else is silent as the night, 
And breathless as the early dew, 
That sleeps in drops of glittering light 
Upon the wild flowers rosy hue. 
Frail things of earth that spring to life, 
And drink the sun, and shine and die — 
And yet with being’s glory rife, 
Are wonderful to human eye. 
But hark ! — a distant sound I hear, 
It comes like music on mine ear — 
Again ! — it is the bugle’s note. 
Borne on the misty air along — 
It seems upon the breeze to float 
As if some spirit woke its song. 
Again it breathes — and nearer now — 
A louder and a clearer strain — 
And echo answers soft and low, 
As though she deemed her effort vain. 
O ! at the hour of early morn, 
Earth has no such inspiring sound, 
T 
As that of the resounding horn 
That wakes the silence all around. 
How sweetly on the ear it thrills, 
Bounding from o’er the distant hills, 
Bearing the mind in fancy back 
T o chaste Diana’s rosy track. 
When thro’ the summer woods she flew, 
And scarce disturbed the honey’d dew. 
But louder now the echoes swell — 
And hark 1 I hear the distant yell 
Of eager hounds that scent their prey 
Thro’ fields and fallow far away — 
They come — they come — the clam’rous pack 
Lifting their voices in full cry, 
And close upon the fox’s track, 
Like mountain-torrent, they sweep by — 
And horse and huntsman follow near, 
Dashing thro’ ditch, thro’ briar and brake — 
He strikes the spur, the bank they clear — 
The whip is raised, they swim the lake. 
Away — away — with careless speed, 
Strained to the task, they onward bound — ■ 
Away — away — go man and steed — 
Away — away — go horn and hound. 
The wearied prey begins to faint, 
He turns and doubles, all in vain — 
The eager dogs defy restraint, 
And hunt him to the open plain. 
But safer ’mid the sheltering trees, 
Back to the woods he speeds his way, 
Yet still his scent is on the breeze, 
And yelling hounds pursue their prey. 
In vain he strives, with swifter pace, 
To leave his ravening foes behind — 
In vain he would their scent misplace, 
And bid them snuff the vacant wind. 
In vain his toil — in vain his care — 
For bursting in with furious sound, 
Like thunder on the summer air, 
His fierce pursuers close him round. 
From front to rear the gathering clan 
Send their proud echo to the skies — • 
And ’mid the shouts of brute and man, 
At length the hapless victim dies. 
The early mists have rolled away, 
And high in heaven careers the sun — 
While in the face of garish day, 
The horn proclaims the conquest won. 
O did we take for heaven above, 
(So sings the bard of melody,) 
The pains we take for woman’s love, 
What very angels should we be. 
