Page:The Works of Alexander Pope (1717).djvu/91

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WINDSOR-FOREST.
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Before his Lord the ready Spaniel bounds,Panting with hope, he tries the furrow'd grounds,But when the tainted gales the game betray,Couch'd close he lies, and meditates the prey;Secure they trust th' unfaithful field, beset,Till hov'ring o'er 'em sweeps the swelling net.Thus (if small things we may with great compare)When Albion sends her eager sons to war,Pleas'd, in the Gen'ral's sight, the host lie downSudden, before some unsuspecting town,The captive Race, one instant makes our prize,And high in air Britannia's standard flies.See! from the brake the whirring Pheasant springs,And mounts exulting on triumphant wings.Short is his joy; he feels the fiery wound,Flutters in blood, and panting beats the ground.Ah! what avail his glossy, varying dyes,His purple crest, and scarlet-circled eyes,The vivid green his shining plumes unfold,His painted wings, and breast that flames with gold?

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