ed. What biting thoughts
Torment the abandoned crew! Old age laments
His vigour spent: the tall, plump, brawny youth
Curses his cumbrous bulk; and envies now
The short Pygmean race, he whilom kenn'd
With proud insulting leer. A chosen few
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Alone the sport enjoy, nor droop beneath
Their pleasing toils. Here, huntsman, from this height
Observe yon birds of prey; if I can judge,
'Tis there the villain lurks; they hover round
And claim him as their own. Was I not right?
See! there he creeps along; his brush he drags,
And sweeps the mire impure; from his wide jaws
His tongue unmoistened hangs; symptoms too sure
Of sudden death. Ha! yet he flies, nor yields
To black despair. But one loose more, and all
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His wiles are vain. Hark! through yon village now
The rattling clamour rings. The barns, the cots
And leafless elms return the joyous sounds.
Through every homestall, and through every yard,
His midnight walks, panting, forlorn, he flies;
Through every hole he sneaks, through every jakes
Plunging he wades besmeared, and fondly hopes
In a superior stench to lose his own:
But faithful to the track, the unerring hounds
With peals of echoing vengeance close pursue.
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And now distressed, no sheltering covert near,
Into the hen-roost creeps, whose walls with gore
Distained attest his guilt. There, villain, there
Expect thy fate deserved. And soon from thence
The pack inquisitive, with clamour loud,
Drag out their trembling prize; and on his blood
With greedy transport feast. In bolder notes
Each sounding horn proclaims the felon dead:
And all the assembled village shouts for joy.
The farmer who beholds his mortal foe
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Stretched at his feet, applauds the glorious deed,
And grateful calls us to a short repast!
In the full glass the liquid amber smiles,
Our native product. And his good old mate
With choicest viands heaps the liberal board,
To crown our triumphs, and reward our toils.
Here must the instructive Muse (but with respect)
Censure that numerous pack, that crowd of state,
With which the vain profusion of the great
Covers the lawn, and shakes the trembling copse.
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Pompous incumbrance! A magnificence
Useless, vexatious! For the wily fox,
Safe in the increasing number of his foes,
Kens well the great advantage: slinks behind
And slily creeps through the same beaten track,
And hunts them st