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The poems of George Daniel

... From the original mss. in the British Museum: Hitherto unprinted. Edited, with introduction, notes, and illustrations, portrait, &c. By the Rev. Alexander B. Grosart: In four volumes

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After a storme, going a hawking.
  
  
  
  
  
  
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96

After a storme, going a hawking.

[_]

This was written before the foregoing Poeme though here placed after.

Long bound in Ice and horrid Hills of Snow
Such as the fur-clad Russians ever know;
Wee are releived now, by a gentle raine,
And take the pleasures of the feild againe.
The Restive Horse, now knowes the dexterous hand
Of his old Rider; runs to his Command;
The gentile Greyhound, (in his Ease growne high)
Frisks with Delight, to see his lord applye
The Collar to his Necke; and hopes againe
To triumph, in the blood of poor Watt slaine;
The generous ffalcon, (heavie, with her Ease)
Plyes her firme ffeathers; and doth boldly seize
The trembling Qvarrie; or Enue the ffowle
Halfe dead with feare; others (more brave) controule
The lofty Heron's flight; and venture all
Their Life and Honour, with him in the ffall,
Vndaunted; yet, with such a cautious flight

97

They almost teach a Rationall to fight.
For can wee thinke it lesse, to see her arm'd
And haughtie foe fall dead? her selfe vnharm'd:
A Glorious victor in his Blood, and, proud
Of Conquest, scatters all his plumes abroade.
Such ioyes the Season doth to Men present
And (yet) a peace gives freedome, but content,
In my retiréd Cell. I rather Chuse
More solid recreations, with the Muse
Which I have Chosen; and my thoughts revolve
To everye Chord of Passion, and resolve
Some time the Hardest, braver pleasure farre,
To give bright reason wing, into the Spheare
Of Truth, her Region; where the foole is Still
In our protection; give her way to kill
The Harpie She has ruff't; for I dare say
She has earn'd her Bells, to bring downe such a prey.
But wee are all ill Falconers, and Strive
Against our pleasure. If wee keepe alive
The Bird, wee are better pleas'd, and take her downe
With a false Qvarrie; but the Lure is knowne,
And she disdains to stoope; but (madded) tries
Her wing at everye lesser Bird that flyes;
Another such a Checke, and though you boast
Your Care and Cunning; shee's for ever lost.
Such Bunglers are wee all; and if wee can
Abuse our selves, wee glorie in't. Oh, man,
How art thou wise? In what can Iudgment claime

98

Her right? or vertue, In what more then name?
Hurried away, by vanitie and Sence;
Proud, in all Sin of Disobedience;
To everie Passion subiect; and more fraile
Then rotten Sea-tost barkes, without a Saile.
Oh God! what is thy Creature? he, who once
(Equall almost, to Angels), did advance
His glorious Crowne. Oh whither is he sunke:
ffrom that perfection? as a Shadow Shrunke
From his Creation. This were thought enough
To busye all men, were wee wise to know
Our owne Necessities; but this wee keepe
Our burthen Still, and in these fetters sleepe;
Which wee make light with Fancie; and esteeme
Rather as bracelets, eveen to glorye them.
But wretched that wee are, insensible
Of our owne ruine; though wee doe not feele
The weight and mischeife; 'tis apparant in
Our members, worne and fretted to the Skinne;
And privilie the rust our marrow gnawes.
Inevitable Ruine sadly drawes
Vpon vs, careles of our overthrow;
And often fall, before wee feele the blow.
But ah, desist fond Qvill; the Inke thou hast spilt
Runs to thy Shame, and argues thy owne gvilt.