To some this rich and multifarious world Is void without the chase: poor Reynard's scent Is the prime smell beneath the firmament, And all besides is into Limbo hurl'd; To-day will be the first meet of the hounds; The wind blows south, and, in the early dark, The squire sits gazing o'er his dusky park, While, in his ears, the horn already sounds; Yon furzy levels harbour all his hopes, No other field of glory ranks with them; Fair Athens and divine Jerusalem Are moving to the Dawn with Hunter's Copse, And the Home-cover; but the squire ignores All fame, that mounts not at his kennel-doors. |