end;
  And, after their high-minded riot,
  Sickening into thoughtful quiet;
  As if the morning’s pleasant hour,
  Had for their joys a killing power. 660
  And, sooth, for Benjamin a vein
  Is opened of still deeper pain,
  As if his heart by notes were stung
  From out the lowly hedge-rows flung;
  As if the warbler lost in light [L] 665
  Reproved his soarings of the night,
  In strains of rapture pure and holy
  Upbraided his distempered folly. [55]

    Drooping is he, his step is dull; [56]
  But the horses stretch and pull; 670
  With increasing vigour climb,
  Eager to repair lost time;
  Whether, by their own desert,
  Knowing what cause there is [57] for shame,
  They are labouring to avert 675
  As much as may be of the blame, [58]
  Which, they foresee, must soon alight
  Upon his head, whom, in despite
  Of all his failings, they love best; [59]
  Whether for him they are distrest, 680
  Or, by length of fasting roused,
  Are impatient to be housed: 
  Up against the hill they strain
  Tugging at the iron chain,
  Tugging all with might and main, 685
  Last and foremost, every horse
  To the utmost of his force! 
  And the smoke and respiration,
  Rising like an exhalation,
  Blend [60] with the mist—­a moving shroud 690
  To form, an undissolving cloud;
  Which, with slant ray, the merry sun
  Takes delight to play upon. 
  Never golden-haired Apollo,
  Pleased some favourite chief to follow 695
  Through accidents of peace or war,
  In a perilous moment threw
  Around the object of his care
  Veil of such celestial hue; [61]
  Interposed so bright a screen—­700
  Him and his enemies between!

    Alas! what boots it?—­who can hide,
  When the malicious Fates are bent
  On working out an ill intent? 
  Can destiny be turned aside? 705
  No—­sad progress of my story! 
  Benjamin, this outward glory
  Cannot shield [62] thee from thy Master,
  Who from Keswick has pricked forth,
  Sour and surly as the north; 710
  And, in fear of some disaster,
  Comes to give what help he may,
  And [63] to hear what thou canst say;
  If, as needs he must forebode, [64]
  Thou hast been loitering [65] on the road! 715
  His fears, his doubts, [66] may now take flight—­
  The wished-for object is in sight;
  Yet, trust the Muse, it rather hath
  Stirred him up to livelier wrath;
  Which he stifles, moody man! 720
  With all the patience that he can;
  To the end that, at your meeting,
  He may give thee decent greeting.