Page:The Seasons - Thomson (1791).djvu/171

 Ubraid, ye ravening tribes, our wanton rage, For hunger kindles you, and lawless want; But lavish fed, in Nature's bounty roll'd, To joy at anguish, and delight in blood, Is what your horrid bosoms never knew.

is the triumph o'er the timid hare! Scar'd from the corn, and now to some lone feat Retir'd: the rushy fen; the ragged furze, Stretch'd o'er the stony heath: the stubble chapt; The thistly lawn; the thick entangled broom; Of the same friendly hue, the wither'd fern: The fallow ground laid open to the sun, Concoctive; and the nodding sandy bank, Hung o'er the mazes of the mountain-brook. Vain is her best precaution; tho' she sits Conceal'd, with folded ears; unsleeping eyes, By Nature rais'd to take th' horizon in; And head couch'd close betwixt her hairy feet, In act to spring away. The scented dew Betrays her early labyrinth; and deep, In scatter'd sullen openings, far behind, With every breeze she hears the coming storm. But nearer, and more frequent, as it loads The sighing gale, she springs amaz'd, and all The savage soul of game is up at once: The pack full-opening, various; the shrill horn, Resounded from the hills; the neighing steed, Wild for the chace; and the loud hunter's shout; O'er a weak, harmless, flying creature, all Mix'd in mad tumult, and discordant joy.

stag too, singled from the herd, where long He rang'd the branching monarch of the shades, Before the tempest drives. At first, in speed He, sprightly, puts his faith; and, rous'd by fear Gives