Classic Poem

Hark! hark! I think I hear the horn,
That chides my long repose;
The dew-drop twinkles on the thorn,
The stream in music flows.

Hark! hear! I hear black Betsy snort,
Impatient of the rein;
When Nature thus proclaims the sport,
Shall man cry out, " It's vain " ?

For this she lent the gentle hart
The vivid lightning's speed;
She taught the hare her mazy art,
And winged the generous steed.

Let sages then of human race,
The slaves of musty saws,
Decry the pleasures of the chase,
The fruit of Nature's laws.

The chase supplied our ancient sires
With food and raiment too —
Till cursed Ambition fanned her fires,
And bent the sounding yew.

Then Law stretched forth her artful toils,
And Cunning laid her snares,
And Plunder gloried in her spoils
And filled the world with cares.

But Care dare not as yet pursue
The hunter's bounding hoof;
And if she even takes a view,
The view must be aloof.