N earliest hours of dark unhooded morn,
Ere yet one rosy cloud bespeaks the dawn,
Whilst far abroad the fox pursues his prey,
He's doom'd to risk the perils of the day,

Scott.

From his stronghold block'd out; perhaps to bleed,
Or owe his life to fortune, or to speed.

For now the pack, impatient rushing on,
Range through the darkest coverts one by one;

Trace every spot; whilst down each noble glade That guides the eye beneath a changeful shade, The loit'ring sportsman feels th' instinctive flame, And checks his steed to mark the springing game.