hand
  Stroke thy soft dappled sides, as he each day
  Visits thy stall, well pleased; no more shalt thou
250
  With sprightly neighings, to the winding horn
  And the loud opening pack in concert joined,
  Glad his proud heart.  For oh! the secret wound
  Rankling inflames, he bites the ground and dies. 
     Hence to the village with pernicious haste
  Baleful he bends his course:  the village flies
  Alarmed; the tender mother in her arms
  Hugs close the trembling babe; the doors are barred,
  And flying curs, by native instinct taught,
  Shun the contagious bane; the rustic bands
260
  Hurry to arms, the rude militia seize
  Whate’er at hand they find; clubs, forks, or guns
  From every quarter charge the furious foe,
  In wild disorder, and uncouth array: 
  Till now with wounds on wounds oppressed and gored,
  At one short poisonous gasp he breathes his last. 
     Hence to the kennel, Muse, return, and view
  With heavy heart that hospital of woe: 
  Where Horror stalks at large; insatiate Death
  Sits growling o’er his prey:  each hour presents
270
  A different scene of ruin and distress. 
  How busy art thou, Fate! and how severe
  Thy pointed wrath! the dying and the dead
  Promiscuous lie; o’er these the living fight
  In one eternal broil; not conscious why,
  Nor yet with whom.  So drunkards in their cups,
  Spare not their friends, while senseless squabble reigns. 
     Huntsman! it much behoves thee to avoid
  The perilous debate!  Ah! rouse up all
  Thy vigilance, and tread the treacherous ground
280
  With careful step.  Thy fires unquenched preserve,
  As erst the vestal flame; the pointed steel
  In the hot embers hide; and if surprised
  Thou feel’st the deadly bite, quick urge it home
  Into the recent sore, and cauterise
  The wound; spare not thy flesh, nor dread the event: 
  Vulcan shall save when Aesculapius fails. 
     Here, should the knowing Muse recount the means
  To stop this growing plague.  And here, alas! 
  Each hand presents a sovereign cure, and boasts
290
  Infallibility, but boasts in vain. 
  On this depend, each to his separate seat
  Confine, in fetters bound; give each his mess
  Apart, his range in open air; and then
  If deadly symptoms to thy grief appear,
  Devote the wretch, and let him greatly fall,
  A generous victim for the public weal. 
     Sing, philosophic Muse, the dire effects
  Of this contagious bite on hapless man. 
  The rustic swains, by long tradition taught
300
  Of leeches old, as soon as they perceive
  The bite impressed, to the sea-coasts repair. 
  Plunged in the briny flood, the unhappy youth
  Now journeys home secure; but soon shall wish
  The seas as yet had covered him beneath
  The foaming surge, full many a fathom