Page:The Chace - Somervile (1735).djvu/89

This page has been proofread, but needs to be validated.
Book III.
THE CHACE.
69
And claim him as their own. Was I not right? 145See! there he creeps along; his Brush he drags,And sweeps the Mire impure; from his wide JawsHis Tongue unmoisten'd hangs; Symptoms too sureOf sudden Death. Hah! yet he flies, nor yieldsTo black Despair. But one Loose more, and allHis Wiles are vain. Hark! thro' yon Village nowThe rattling Clamour rings. The Barns, the CotsAnd leafless Elms return the joyous Sounds.Thro' ev'ry Homestall, and thro' ev'ry Yard,His midnight Walks, panting, forlorn, he flies; 155Thro' ev'ry Hole he sneaks, thro' ev'ry JakesPlunging he wades besmear'd, and fondly hopesIn a superior Stench to lose his own:But faithful to the Track, th' unerring HoundsWith Peals of echoing Vengeance close pursue. 160And now distress'd, no shelt'ring Covert nearInto the Hen-roost creeps, whose Walls with Gore

Distain'd

This article is issued from Wikisource. The text is available under Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 unless otherwise noted. Additional terms may apply for the media files.