Their virtue fails, a weak degenerate race. 
  In vain malignant steams, and winter fogs
  Load the dull air, and hover round our coasts,
  The huntsman ever gay, robust, and bold,
  Defies the noxious vapour, and confides
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  In this delightful exercise, to raise
  His drooping head and cheer his heart with joy. 
     Ye vigorous youths, by smiling Fortune blest
  With large demesnes, hereditary wealth,
  Heaped copious by your wise forefathers’ care,
  Hear and attend! while I the means reveal
  To enjoy those pleasures, for the weak too strong,
  Too costly for the poor:  to rein the steed
  Swift-stretching o’er the plain, to cheer the pack
  Opening in concerts of harmonious joy,
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  But breathing death.  What though the gripe severe
  Of brazen-fisted Time, and slow disease
  Creeping through every vein, and nerve unstrung,
  Afflict my shattered frame, undaunted still,
  Fixed as a mountain ash, that braves the bolts
  Of angry Jove; though blasted, yet unfallen;
  Still can my soul in Fancy’s mirror view
  Deeds glorious once, recal the joyous scene
  In all its splendours decked, o’er the full bowl
  Recount my triumphs past, urge others on
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  With hand and voice, and point the winding way: 
  Pleased with that social sweet garrulity,
  The poor disbanded veteran’s sole delight. 
     First let the Kennel be the huntsman’s care,
  Upon some little eminence erect,
  And fronting to the ruddy dawn; its courts
  On either hand wide opening to receive
  The sun’s all-cheering beams, when mild he shines,
  And gilds the mountain tops.  For much the pack
  (Roused from their dark alcoves) delight to stretch,
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  And bask in his invigorating ray: 
  Warned by the streaming light and merry lark,
  Forth rush the jolly clan; with tuneful throats
  They carol loud, and in grand chorus joined
  Salute the new-born day.  For not alone
  The vegetable world, but men and brutes
  Own his reviving influence, and joy
  At his approach.  Fountain of light! if chance[4]
  Some envious cloud veil thy refulgent brow,
  In vain the Muses aid; untouched, unstrung,
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  Lies my mute harp, and thy desponding bard
  Sits darkly musing o’er the unfinished lay. 
     Let no Corinthian pillars prop the dome,
  A vain expense, on charitable deeds
  Better disposed, to clothe the tattered wretch,
  Who shrinks beneath the blast, to feed the poor
  Pinched with afflictive want.  For use, not state,
  Gracefully plain, let each apartment rise. 
  O’er all let cleanliness preside, no scraps
  Bestrew the pavement, and no half-picked bones,
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  To kindle fierce debate, or to disgust
  That nicer sense, on which the sportsman’s hope,
  And all his future triumphs must depend. 
  Soon as the growling pack with eager joy