Classic Poem

Trueman, whom for sagacious nose we hail
The chief, first touched the scarce-distinguished gale;
His tongue was doubtful, and no hound replies:
‘Haux!—wind him!—haux!’ the tuneful huntsman cries.
At once the list'ning pack asunder spread,
With tail erect, and with inquiring head:
With busy nostrils they foretaste their prey,
And snuff the lawn-impearling dews away.
Now here, now there, they chop upon the scent,
Their tongues in undulating ether spent:
More joyous now, and louder by degrees,
Warm and more warm they catch the coming breeze.
Now with full symphony they jointly hail
The welcome tidings of a surer gale;
Along the vale they pour the swelling note,
Their ears and dewlaps on the morning float.
How vainly art aspires by rival sounds
To match the native melody of hounds!
Now lightly o'er opposing walls we bound,
Clear the broad trench, and top the rising mound:
No stop, no time for respite or recess—
On, and still on, fox, dogs, and horses press.

But Reynard, hotly pushed, and close pursued,
Yet fruitful in expedients to elude,
When to the bourn's refreshing bank he came
Had plunged all reeking in the friendly stream.

The chopfall'n hounds meantime are heard no more,
But silent range along the winding shore.
Hopeless alike the hunters lag behind,
And give all thoughts of Reynard to the wind,
All, save one wily rival of his art,
Who vows unpitying vengeance ere they part.
Along the coast his watchful course he bent,
Careful to catch and wind the thwarting scent
And last, to make his boastful promise good,
Entered the precincts of the fatal wood.
There through the gloom he leads one hopeless train,
And cheers the long-desponding pack in vain;
Till Ringwood first the faint effluvia caught,
And with loud tongue reformed their old default.

Here had the felon earthed: with many a hound
And many a horse we gird his hold around:
The hounds 'fore Heav'n their accusation spread,
And cry for justice on his caitiff head.