forest rings. 
  How merrily they chant! their nostrils deep
  Inhale the grateful steam.  Such is the cry,
  And such the harmonious din, the soldier deems
  The battle kindling, and the statesman grave
  Forgets his weighty cares; each age, each sex
  In the wild transport joins; luxuriant joy,
  And pleasure in excess, sparkling exult
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  On every brow, and revel unrestrained. 
  How happy art thou, man, when thou ’rt no more
  Thyself! when all the pangs that grind thy soul,
  In rapture and in sweet oblivion lost,
  Yield a short interval, and ease from pain! 
     See the swift courser strains, his shining hoofs
  Securely beat the solid ground.  Who now
  The dangerous pitfall fears, with tangling heath
  High-overgrown?  Or who the quivering bog
  Soft yielding to the step?  All now is plain,
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  Plain as the strand sea-laved, that stretches far
  Beneath the rocky shore.  Glades crossing glades
  The forest opens to our wondering view: 
  Such was the king’s command.  Let tyrants fierce
  Lay waste the world; his the more glorious part
  To check their pride; and when the brazen voice
  Of war is hushed (as erst victorious Rome)
  To employ his stationed legions in the works
  Of peace; to smoothe the rugged wilderness,
  To drain the stagnate fen, to raise the slope
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  Depending road, and to make gay the face
  Of nature, with the embellishments of art. 
     How melts my beating heart! as I behold
  Each lovely nymph our island’s boast and pride,
  Push on the generous steed, that strokes along
  O’er rough, o’er smooth, nor heeds the steepy hill,
  Nor falters in the extended vale below: 
  Their garments loosely waving in the wind,
  And all the flush of beauty in their cheeks! 
  While at their sides their pensive lovers wait,
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  Direct their dubious course; now chilled with fear
  Solicitous, and now with love inflamed. 
  Oh! grant, indulgent Heaven, no rising storm
  May darken with black wings, this glorious scene! 
  Should some malignant power thus damp our joys,
  Vain were the gloomy cave, such as of old
  Betrayed to lawless love the Tyrian queen. 
  For Britain’s virtuous nymphs are chaste as fair,
  Spotless, unblamed, with equal triumph reign
  In the dun gloom, as in the blaze of day.
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     Now the blown stag, through woods, bogs, roads, and streams
  Has measured half the forest; but alas! 
  He flies in vain, he flies not from his fears. 
  Though far he cast the lingering pack behind,
  His haggard fancy still with horror views
  The fell destroyer; still the fatal cry
  Insults his ears, and wounds his trembling heart. 
  So the poor fury-haunted wretch (his hands
  In guiltless blood distained) still seems to hear