Of maladies?  Terrific pest! that blasts
190
  The huntsman’s hopes, and desolation spreads
  Through all the unpeopled kennel unrestrained. 
  More fatal than the envenomed viper’s bite;
  Or that Apulian[10] spider’s poisonous sting,
  Healed by the pleasing antidote of sounds. 
     When Sirius reigns, and the sun’s parching beams
  Bake the dry gaping surface, visit thou
  Each even and morn, with quick observant eye,
  Thy panting pack.  If in dark sullen mood,
  The gloating hound refuse his wonted meal,
200
  Retiring to some close, obscure retreat,
  Gloomy, disconsolate:  with speed remove
  The poor infectious wretch, and in strong chains
  Bind him suspected.  Thus that dire disease
  Which art can’t cure, wise caution may prevent. 
     But this neglected, soon expect a change,
  A dismal change, confusion, frenzy, death. 
  Or in some dark recess the senseless brute
  Sits sadly pining:  deep melancholy,
  And black despair, upon his clouded brow
210
  Hang lowering; from his half-opening jaws
  The clammy venom, and infectious froth,
  Distilling fall; and from his lungs inflamed,
  Malignant vapours taint the ambient air,
  Breathing perdition:  his dim eyes are glazed,
  He droops his pensive head, his trembling limbs
  No more support his weight; abject he lies,
  Dumb, spiritless, benumbed; till death at last
  Gracious attends, and kindly brings relief. 
     Or if outrageous grown, behold alas!
220
  A yet more dreadful scene; his glaring eye
  Redden with fury, like some angry boar
  Churning he foams; and on his back erect
  His pointed bristles rise; his tail incurved
  He drops, and with harsh broken bowlings rends
  The poison-tainted air, with rough hoarse voice
  Incessant bays; and snuff’s the infectious breeze;
  This way and that he stares aghast, and starts
  At his own shade; jealous, as if he deemed
  The world his foes.  If haply toward the stream
230
  He cast his roving eye, cold horror chills
  His soul; averse he flies, trembling, appalled. 
  Now frantic to the kennel’s utmost verge
  Raving he runs, and deals destruction round. 
  The pack fly diverse; for whate’er he meets
  Vengeful he bites, and every bite is death. 
     If now perchance through the weak fence escaped,
  Far up the wind he roves, with open mouth
  Inhales the cooling breeze, nor man, nor beast
   He spares, implacable.  The hunter-horse,
240
  Once kind associate of his sylvan toils,
  (Who haply now without the kennel’s mound
  Crops the rank mead, and listening hears with joy
  The cheering cry, that morn and eve salutes
  His raptured sense) a wretched victim falls. 
  Unhappy quadruped! no more, alas! 
  Shall thy fond master with his voice applaud
  Thy gentleness, thy speed; or with his