alone
  Confides not:  at convenient distance fixed,
  A polished mirror stops in full career
  The furious brute:  he there his image views;
  Spots against spots with rage improving glow;
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  Another pard his bristly whiskers curls,
  Grins as he grins, fierce-menacing, and wide
  Distends his opening jaws; himself against
  Himself opposed, and with dread vengeance armed. 
  The huntsman now secure, with fatal aim
  Directs the pointed spear, by which transfixed
  He dies, and with him dies the rival shade. 
  Thus man innumerous engines forms, to assail
  The savage kind:  but most the docile horse,
  Swift and confederate with man, annoys
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  His brethren of the plains; without whose aid
  The hunter’s arts are vain, unskilled to wage
  With the more active brutes an equal war. 
  But borne by him, without the well-trained pack,
  Man dares his foe, on wings of wind secure. 
     Him the fierce Arab mounts, and with his troop
  Of bold compeers, ranges the deserts wild,
  Where by the magnet’s aid, the traveller
  Steers his untrodden course; yet oft on land
  Is wrecked, in the high-rolling waves of sand
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  Immersed and lost; while these intrepid bands,
  Safe in their horses’ speed, out-fly the storm,
  And scouring round, make men and beasts their prey. 
  The grisly boar is singled from his herd
  As large as that in Erimanthian woods. 
  A match for Hercules.  Round him they fly
  In circles wide; and each in passing sends
  His feathered death into his brawny sides. 
  But perilous the attempt.  For if the steed
  Haply too near approach; or the loose earth
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  His footing fail; the watchful angry beast
  The advantage spies; and at one sidelong glance
  Rips up his groin.  Wounded, he rears aloft,
  And plunging, from his back the rider hurls
  Precipitant; then bleeding spurns the ground,
  And drags his reeking entrails o’er the plain. 
  Meanwhile the surly monster trots along,
  But with unequal speed; for still they wound,
  Swift-wheeling in the spacious ring.  A wood
  Of darts upon his back he bears; adown
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  His tortured sides, the crimson torrents roll
  From many a gaping font.  And now at last
  Staggering he falls, in blood and foam expires. 
     But whither roves my devious Muse, intent
  On antique tales, while yet the royal stag
  Unsung remains?  Tread with respectful awe
  Windsor’s green glades; where Denham, tuneful bard,
  Charmed once the listening dryads, with his song
  Sublimely sweet.  Oh! grant me, sacred shade,
  To glean submiss what thy full sickle leaves.
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     The morning sun that gilds with trembling rays
  Windsor’s high towers, beholds the courtly train
  Mount for the chase, nor views in all his course
  A scene so gay:  heroic, noble youths,