'Tis his to mark with joy the varied passions,
Fierce heats of anger, terror, blank dismay,
Of forest animals that cross his path.
Then what a thrill transports the hunter's soul,
When, with unerring course, his driven shaft
Pierces the moving mark! Oh! 'tis conceit
In moralists to call the chase a vice;
What recreation can compare with this?
MATHAVYA [_angrily_].--Away! tempter, away! The King has recovered his
senses, and is himself again. As for you, you may, if you choose, wander
about from forest to forest, till some old bear seizes you by the nose,
and makes a mouthful of you.
KING.--My good General, as we are just now in the neighborhood of a
consecrated grove, your panegyric upon hunting is somewhat ill-timed,
and I cannot assent to all you have said. For the present,
All undisturbed the buffaloes shall sport
In yonder pool, and with their ponderous horns
Scatter its tranquil waters, while the deer,
Couched here and there in groups beneath the shade
Of spreading branches, ruminate in peace.
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