His winding way, while all the listening crowd
  Applaud his reasonings.  O’er the watery ford,
  Dry sandy heaths, and stony barren hill,
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  O’er beaten paths, with men and beasts distained,
  Unerring he pursues; till at the cot
  Arrived, and seizing by his guilty throat
  The caitiff’ vile, redeems the captive prey: 
  So exquisitely delicate his sense! 
     Should some more curious sportsman here inquire,
  Whence this sagacity, this wondrous power
  Of tracing step by step, or man or brute?

  What guide invisible points out their way,
  O’er the dank marsh, bleak hill, and sandy plain?
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  The courteous Muse shall the dark cause reveal. 
  The blood that from the heart incessant rolls
  In many a crimson tide, then here and there
  In smaller rills disparted, as it flows
  Propelled, the serous particles evade
  Through the open pores, and with the ambient air
  Entangling mix.  As fuming vapours rise,
  And hang upon the gently purling brook,
  There by the incumbent atmosphere compressed,
  The panting chase grows warmer as he flies,
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  And through the net-work of the skin perspires;
  Leaves a long-streaming trail behind, which by
  The cooler air condensed, remains, unless
  By some rude storm dispersed, or rarefied
  By the meridian sun’s intenser heat. 
  To every shrub the warm effluvia cling,
  Hang on the grass, impregnate earth and skies. 
  With nostrils opening wide, o’er hill, o’er dale,
  The vigorous hounds pursue, with every breath
  Inhale the grateful steam, quick pleasures sting
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  Their tingling nerves, while they their thanks repay,
  And in triumphant melody confess
  The titillating joy.  Thus on the air
  Depend the hunter’s hopes.  When ruddy streaks
  At eve forebode a blustering stormy day,
  Or lowering clouds blacken the mountain’s brow,
  When nipping frosts, and the keen biting blasts
  Of the dry parching east, menace the trees
  With tender blossoms teeming, kindly spare
  Thy sleeping pack, in their warm beds of straw
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  Low-sinking at their ease; listless they shrink
  Into some dark recess, nor hear thy voice
  Though oft invoked; or haply if thy call
  Rouse up the slumbering tribe, with heavy eyes
  Glazed, lifeless, dull, downward they drop their tails
  Inverted; high on their bent backs erect
  Their pointed bristles stare, or ’mong the tufts
  Of ranker weeds, each stomach-healing plant
  Curious they crop, sick, spiritless, forlorn. 
  These inauspicious days, on other cares
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  Employ thy precious hours; the improving friend
  With open arms embrace, and from his lips
  Glean science, seasoned with good-natured wit. 
  But if the inclement skies and angry Jove
  Forbid the pleasing intercourse, thy books