X.
The Hunter-steed, exulting o'er the Dale,
And drew the roseat Breath of orient Day;
Sometimes, retiring to the secret Vale,
Yclad in Steel and bright with burnish'd Mail,
He strain'd the Bow, or toss'd the sounding Spear,
Or darting on the Goal outstrip'd the Gale,
Or wheel'd the Chariot in its Mid-Career,
Or strenuous wrestled hard with many a tough Compeer.
XI.
Whate'er she in th' Etherial Round contains,
Whate'er she hides beneath her verdant Floor,
The vegetable and the mineral Reigns;
Or else he scann'd the Globe, those small Domains,
Where restless Mortals such a Turmoil keep,
Its Seas, its Floods, its Mountains, and its Plains;
But more he search'd the Mind, and rous'd from Sleep
Those moral Seeds whence we heroic Actions reap.
XII.