bend
  Beneath the driving storm.  Now the poor chase
  Begins to flag, to her last shifts reduced. 
  From brake to brake she flies, and visits all
260
  Her well-known haunts, where once she ranged secure,
  With love and plenty bless’d.  See! there she goes,
  She reels along, and by her gait betrays
  Her inward weakness.  See, how black she looks! 
  The sweat that clogs the obstructed pores, scarce leaves
  A languid scent.  And now in open view
  See, see, she flies! each eager hound exerts
  His utmost speed, and stretches every nerve. 
  How quick she turns! their gaping jaws eludes,
  And yet a moment lives; till round inclosed
270
  By all the greedy pack, with infant screams
  She yields her breath, and there reluctant dies. 
  So when the furious Bacchanals assailed
  Thracian Orpheus, poor ill-fated bard! 
  Loud was the cry; hills, woods, and Hebrus’ banks,
  Returned their clamorous rage; distressed he flies,
  Shifting from place to place, but flies in vain;
  For eager they pursue, till panting, faint,
  By noisy multitudes o’erpowered, he sinks,
  To the relentless crowd a bleeding prey.
280
     The huntsman now, a deep incision made,
  Shakes out with hands impure, and dashes down
  Her reeking entrails, and yet quivering heart. 
  These claim the pack, the bloody perquisite
  For all their toils.  Stretched on the ground she lies,
  A mangled corse; in her dim glaring eyes
  Cold death exults, and stiffens every limb. 
  Awed by the threatening whip, the furious hounds
  Around her bay; or at their master’s foot,
  Each happy favourite courts his kind applause,
290
  With humble adulation cowering low. 
  All now is joy.  With cheeks full-blown they wind
  Her solemn dirge, while the loud-opening pack
  The concert swell, and hills and dales return
  The sadly-pleasing sounds.  Thus the poor hare,
  A puny, dastard animal, but versed
  In subtle wiles, diverts the youthful train. 
  But if thy proud, aspiring soul disdains
  So mean a prey, delighted with the pomp,
  Magnificence and grandeur of the chase;
300
  Hear what the Muse from faithful records sings. 
     Why on the banks of Gemna, Indian stream,
  Line within line, rise the pavilions proud,
  Their silken streamers waving in the wind? 
  Why neighs the warrior horse? from tent to tent,
  Why press in crowds the buzzing multitude? 
  Why shines the polished helm, and pointed lance,
  This way and that far-beaming o’er the plain? 
  Nor Visapour nor Golconda rebel;
  Nor the great Sophy, with his numerous host
310
  Lays waste the provinces; nor glory fires
  To rob, and to destroy, beneath the name
  And specious guise of war.  A nobler cause
  Calls Aurengzebe[7] to arms.  No cities sacked,
  No mother’s tears, no helpless orphan’s