Of the power of instinct in brutes.-Two remarkable instances in the hunting of the roebuck, and in the hare going to seat in the morning-Of the variety of seats or forms of the hare, according to the change of the season, weather, or wind-Description of the hare-hunting in all its parts, interspersed with rules to be observed by those who follow that Chase-Transition to the Asiatic way of hunting, particularly the magnificent manner of the Great Mogul, and other Tartarian princes; taken from Monsieur Bernier, and the history of Gengiskan the Great-Concludes with a short reproof of tyrants and oppressors of mankind.
NOR will it less delight the attentive sage
To observe that instinct, which unerring guides
The brutal race, which mimics reason's lore
And oft transcends: Heaven-taught, the roe-buck
Loiters at ease before the driving pack,
[swift
And mocks their vain pursuit ; nor far he flies,
But checks his ardour, till the steaming scent
That freshens on the blade, provokes their rage.
Urged to their speed, his weak deluded foes
Soon flag fatigued; strain'd to excess each nerve,
Each slacken'd sinew fails; they pant, they foam;
Then o'er the lawn he bounds, o'er the high hills
Stretches secure, and leaves the scatter'd crowd
To puzzle in the distant vale below.
"Tis instinct that directs the jealous hare To choose her soft abode: with step reversed She forms the doubling maze; then, ere the morn Peeps through the clouds, leaps to her close recess.
As wandering shepherds on the Arabian plains No settled residence observe, but shift
Their moving camp; now, on some cooler hill
With cedars crown'd, court the refreshing breeze;
And then, below, where trickling streams distil
From some penurious source, their thirst allay,
And feed their fainting flocks; so the wise hares
Oft quit their seats, lest some more curious eye
Should mark their haunts, and by dark treacherous
Plot their destruction; or perchance in hopes [wiles
Of plenteous forage, near the ranker mead
Or matted blade, wary, and close they sit.
When Spring shines forth, season of love and joy,
In the moist marsh, 'mong beds of rushes hid,
They cool their boiling blood: when summer suns
Bake the cleft earth, to thick wide-waving fields
Of corn full-grown, they lead their helpless young:
But when autumnal torrents, and fierce rains
Deluge the vale, in the dry crumbling bank
Their forms they delve, and cautiously avoid
The dripping covert. Yet when winter's cold
Their limbs benumbs, thither with speed return'd
In the long grass they skulk, or shrinking creep
Among the wither'd leaves; thus changing still,
As fancy prompts them, or as food invites.
But every season carefully observed,
The inconstant winds, the fickle element,
The wise experienced huntsman soon may find
His subtle, various game, nor waste in vain
His tedious hours, till his impatient hounds,
With disappointment vex'd, each springing lark
Babbling pursue, far scatter'd o'er the fields.
Now golden Autumn from her open lap
Her fragrant bounties showers; the fields are shorn.
Inwardly smiling, the proud farmer views
The rising pyramids that grace his yard,
And counts his large increase; his barns are stored,
And groaning stadles bend beneath their load.
All now is free as air, and the gay pack
In the rough bristly stubbles range unblamed;
No widow's tears o'erflow, no secret curse
Swells in the farmer's breast, which his pale lips
Trembling conceal, by his fierce landlord awed:
But courteous now he levels every fence,
Joins in the common cry, and halloos loud,
- Charm'd with the rattling thunder of the field.
O bear me, some kind power invisible !
To that extended lawn, where the gay court
View the swift racers stretching to the goal;
Games more renown'd, and a far nobler train,
Than proud Elean fields could boast of old.
O! were a Theban lyre not wanting here,
And Pindar's voice, to do their merit right!
Or to those spacious plains, where the strain'd eye
In the wide prospect lost, beholds at last
Sarum's proud spire, that o'er the hills ascends,
And pierces through the clouds. Or to thy downs,
Fair Cotswold, where the well-breathed beagle
climbs,
With matchless speed, thy green aspiring brow,
And leaves the lagging multitude behind.
Hail, gentle Dawn! mild blushing goddess, hail! Rejoiced I see thy purple mantle spread
O'er half the skies; gems pave thy radiant way,
And orient pearls from every shrub depend.
Farewell, Cleora; here deep sunk in down
Slumber secure, with happy dreams amused,
Till grateful steams shall tempt thee to receive
Thy early meal, or thy officious maids,
The toilet placed, shall urge thee to perform
The important work. Me other joys invite:
The horn sonorous calls, the pack awaked
Their matins chant, nor brook my long delay.
My courser hears their voice; see there with ears
And tail erect, neighing he paws the ground;
Fierce rapture kindles in his reddening eyes,
And boils in every vein. As captive boys
Cow'd by the ruling rod, and haughty frowns
Of pedagogues severe, from their hard tasks
If once dismiss'd, no limits can contain
The tumult raised within their little breasts,
But give a loose to all their frolic play :
So from their kennel rush the joyous pack;
A thousand wanton gaieties express
Their inward ecstasy, their pleasing sport
Once more indulged, and liberty restored.
The rising sun that o'er the horizon peeps,
As many colours from their glossy skins
Beaming reflects, as paint the various bow
When April showers descend. Delightful scene!
Where all around is gay; men, horses, dogs,
And in each smiling countenance appears
Fresh-blooming health, and universal joy.
Huntsman, lead on! behind the clustering pack
Submiss attend, hear with respect thy whip
Loud clanging, and thy harsher voice obey:
Spare not the straggling cur that wildly roves,
But let thy brisk assistant on his back
Imprint thy just resentments; let each lash
Bite to the quick, till howling he return,
And whining creep amid the trembling crowd.
Here on this verdant spot, where Nature kind, With double blessings crowns the farmer's hopes; Where flowers autumnal spring, and the rank mead Affords the wandering hares a rich repast;
Throw off thy ready pack. See, where they spread
And range around, and dash the glittering dew.
If some stanch hound, with his authentic voice,
Avow the recent trail, the justling tribe
Attend his call, then with one mutual cry
The welcome news confirm, and echoing hills
Repeat the pleasing tale. See how they thread
The brakes, and up yon furrow drive along!
But quick they back recoil, and wisely check
Their eager haste; then o'er the fallow'd ground
How leisurely they work, and many a pause
The harmonious concert breaks; till more assured,
With joy redoubled the low valleys ring.
What artful labyrinths perplex their way!
Ah! there she lies: how close! she pants, she doubts
If now she lives; she trembles as she sits,
With horror seized. The wither'd grass that clings
Around her head, of the same russet hue,
Almost deceived my sight, had not her eyes
With life full-beaming her vain wiles betray'd.
At distance draw thy pack, let all be hush'd;
No clamour loud, no frantic joy be heard;
Lest the wild hound run gadding o'er the plain
Untractable, nor hear thy chiding voice.
Now gently put her off; see how direct
To her known mew she flies! Here, huntsman,
(But without hurry) all thy jolly hounds,
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