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 directs, and stratagems inspires,
  Beyond the short extent of human thought.
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  But hold—­I see her from the covert break;
  Sad on yon little eminence she sits;
  Intent she listens with one ear erect,
  Pond’ring, and doubtful what new course to take,
  And how to escape the fierce blood-thirsty crew,
  That still urge on, and still in vollies loud,
  Insult her woes, and mock her sore distress. 
  As now in louder peals, the loaded winds
  Bring on the gathering storm, her fears prevail;
  And o’er the plain, and o’er the mountain’s ridge,
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  Away she flies; nor ships with wind and tide,
  And all their canvas wings, scud half so fast. 
  Once more, ye jovial train, your courage try,
  And each clean courser’s speed.  We scour along,
  In pleasing hurry and confusion tossed;
  Oblivion to be wished.  The patient pack
  Hang on the scent unwearied, up they climb,
  And ardent we pursue; our labouring steeds
  We press, we gore; till once the summit gained,
  Painfully panting, there we breathe a while;
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  Then like a foaming torrent, pouring down
  Precipitant, we smoke along the vale. 
  Happy the man, who with unrivalled speed
  Can pass his fellows, and with pleasure view
  The struggling pack; how in the rapid course
  Alternate they preside, and jostling push
  To guide the dubious scent; how giddy youth
  Oft babbling errs, by wiser age reproved;
  How, niggard of his strength, the wise old hound
  Hangs in the rear, till some important point
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  Rouse all his diligence, or till the chase
  Sinking he finds; then to the head he springs,
  With thirst of glory fired, and wins the prize. 
  Huntsman, take heed; they stop in full career. 
  Yon crowding flocks, that at a distance graze,
  Have haply soiled the turf.  See! that old hound,
  How busily he works, but dares not trust
  His doubtful sense; draw yet a wider ring. 
  Hark! now again the chorus fills; as bells
  Silenced a while at once their peal renew,
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  And high in air the tuneful thunder rolls. 
  See, how they toss, with animated rage
  Recovering all they lost!—­That eager haste
  Some doubling wile foreshews.—­Ah! yet once more
  They’re checked—­hold back with speed—­on either hand
  They nourish round—­even yet persist—­’Tis right,
  Away they spring; the rustling stubbles