ths,
Stripped for the chase, give all your souls to joy!

See how their coursers, than the mountain roe
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More fleet, the verdant carpet skim, thick clouds
Snorting they breathe, their shining hoofs scarce print
The grass unbruised; with emulation fired
They strain to lead the field, top the barred gate,
O'er the deep ditch exulting bound, and brush
The thorny-twining hedge: the riders bend
O'er their arched necks; with steady hands, by turns
Indulge their speed, or moderate their rage.

Where are their sorrows, disappointments, wrongs,
Vexations, sickness, cares? All, all are gone,
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And with the panting winds lag far behind.
Huntsman! her gait observe, if in wide rings
She wheel her mazy way, in the same round
Persisting still, she'll foil the beaten track.
But if she fly, and with the favouring wind
Urge her bold course; less intricate thy task:
Push on thy pack. Like some poor exiled wretch
The frighted chase leaves her late dear abodes,
O'er plains remote she stretches far away,
Ah! never to return! for greedy Death
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Hovering exults, secure to seize his prey.
Hark! from yon covert, where those towering oaks
Above the humble copse aspiring rise,
What glorious triumphs burst in every gale
Upon our ravished ears! The hunters shout,
The clanging horns swell their sweet-winding notes,
The pack wide-opening load the trembling air
With various melody; from tree to tree

The propagated cry redoubling bounds,
And winged zephyrs waft the floating joy
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Through all the regions near: afflictive birch
No more the school-boy dreads, his prison broke,
Scampering he flies, nor heeds his master's call;
The weary traveller forgets his road,
And climbs the adjacent hill; the ploughman leaves
The unfinished furrow; nor his bleating flocks
Are now the shepherd's joy; men, boys, and girls
Desert the unpeopled village; and wild crowds
Spread o'er the plain, by the sweet frenzy seized.
Look, how she pants! and o'er yon opening glade
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Slips glancing by; while, at the further end,
The puzzling pack unravel wile by wile,
Maze within maze. The covert's utmost bound
Slily she skirts; behind them cautious creeps,
And in that very track, so lately stained
By all the steaming crowd, seems to pursue
The foe she flies. Let cavillers deny
That brutes have reason; sure 'tis something more,
'Tis Heaven dire