Original poems on several subjects :: :: University of Virginia Library

Unmann'd by sloth, and unrelax'd by ease,
Without the rod, the basket, or the line,
My friend, can Angling e'er pretend to please,
Howe'er alert the Muse's faith, or thine?

188

Oft has the monarch trout, by art betray'd,
To your well-practis'd fly a victim rose;
Come then, experienc'd, to the Muse's aid,
And where the sport's aught injur'd, interpose.

Now Winter, muffled in his russet cloak,
The surly blasts attending in his train,
Seiz'd his dominions, and his sceptre broke,
With sullen frown forsakes the shiv'ring plain.

Huge as the tyrant stalks, while, roaring loud,
The tempest rous'd his gloomy rage betrays,
Fair Spring, descending on a purple cloud,
Her virgin presence in the east displays.

Onward the goddess moves, with graceful tread,
In flowing em'rald vesture loosely drest;
A flowery garland circles round her head,
And damask rose-buds blush upon her breast.

Smiling, on hill and dale she looks around,
On grove, and coppice, ravish'd of their charms;
And verdant carpets clothe the naked ground,
And trees extend the umbrage of their arms.

189

The river, late swell'd with descending rain,
With torrents tumbling down the mountain's sides;
No more sweeps rapid o'er the delug'd plain,
But in its native channel gently glides.

Zephyrs with fragrance load their fanning wings,
And breathe soft whispers thro' the conscious grove;
With pipe attun'd the feather'd warbler sings,
Hid in the foliage of a green alcove.

In this gay season, when unnumber'd scenes.
Of elegant amusement charm mankind,
When past'ral life, and simple nature reigns,
Chiefly admir'd the Angler's sport we find.

His line to finish, twisted round and round,
Quick to the wide inclosure he repairs,
And from the courser, sweeping to the ground
His tail luxuriant, pulls the chosen hairs.

Next, to the wood he hies with urgent haste,
And of firm ash shapes his elastic wand;
Joint upon joint with just proportion plac'd,
It bends, it tapers in his poising hand.

190

To flutter unsuspected o'er the brook,
Last he equips his artificial fly;
Fictitious wings conceal the lurking hook,
Delusive colours gleam upon the eye.

Furnish'd, he trips, in light-spun frock attir'd,
Along some level green, or shelving hill;
Fancy, by quick enthusiasm fir'd,
Anticipates the success of his skill.

Arriv'd, his curious tackle he unties,
With prompt address adjusting ev'ry part;
While humid evening, and a shadowy skies,
Invite the finest essays of his art.

But first some precepts would the muse propose,
Haply not foreign to the sportsman's care;
Success in angling still depends on those,
Which still the best instructed oft'nest share.

Prefer the livid, short, distractile hook,
The clear, round, shining, pliant hairs select;
Each maculated tenant of the brook
A failure here will readily detect.

191

Cull, from the turtle's variegated wings,
Where tints in rich variety prevail;
Each warbler on the leafy spray that sings,
The wild-duck's glossy neck, and peacock's tail;

Provide the finest plumage each displays,
And decorate in it your mimic fly;
Consult Experience, follow what she says,
But few mistakes escape her sapient eye.

Form not its body of too large a size,
Nor yet too small—the happy medium chuse;
This oft eludes the trouts' exploring eyes,
That with distrust and loathing they refuse.

With just proportion shape each splendid wing,
To spread and flutter on the dimpling pool;
Still near to life your imitation bring,
Its faultless and invariable rule.

See yonder pensile birch, that gently nods
Its leafy umbrage o'er the crystal stream;
Mark well what insects croud its quiv'ring rods,
What vivid hues on their spread pinions gleam.

192

These ever vary with the circling sun,
Each smiling month has its peculiar hue;
This, when your pleasing office is begun,
Keep ever as the pattern in your view.

Nor let your hook, a fault which oft occurs,
Be left expos'd to scare the timid game;
Down, cotton, velvet, feathers, tissues, furs,
Unite their aid the curious garb to frame.

Florella thus, if she with fond success
Would charm us, charm'd alas! with too much ease,
Must study ev'ry elegance of dress,
Each fav'rite mode, each ornament to please.

Climates remote, to forward the design,
Must at her toilet their joint tribute pay;
See the phantastic airy charmer shine,
Prompt to dissemble, gaudy to betray!

But to attend the busy Angler, where
He shifts progressive down the winding stream,
Be now the object of the Muse's care,
A not inglorious, though an humble theme.

193

On a green bank he takes his watchful stand,
Silence and Hope his mute companions twain;
Then casts his arching line with practis'd hand,
While no rude brambles it midway detain.

Quick o'er the glassy brook's serene expanse,
It playful glides, in many a pleasing frisk;
In gazing crouds the cautious fish advance,
Wary as yet the bold attempt to risk.

Sportsman, despair not; ply your finest art,
Shift circumspect, and humour as you move,
Where bubbling rills in distinct channels part,
Or pendent branch luxuriant waves above.

Or, where translucent the wide pool receives
The gurgling streamlet, by no stoppage held;
Or, in alternate circles gently heaves
Refluent, from the shrubb'd oozy bank impell'd.

Beneath that pond'rous stone's projecting seat,
Deep hid in mud, the parent trout resides;
There, with a jerk, direct your pinion'd bait,
Behold! he stirs, and near the surface glides.

194

Skim light your fly against the silver tide,
Or with the current let it move with ease;
Leave no ingenious lesson unapply'd,
Lose no position that will surest please.

Impatience and confusion wisely shun,
Coolly observant, and discreetly slow;
Whate'er the office, or the task begun,
Rashness is justly held their greatest foe.

Reserve and coyness conquer'd by degrees,
His spotted sides he ventures now to show,
In wanton pranks:—O for a friendly breeze
With gentle curl adown the stream to blow!

Rustling the shrubs, reclin'd from side to side,
It breathes, obsequious to his ardent wish;
In liquid furrows lifts the yielding tide,
Sad omen to the unsuspecting fish.

Vainly intent far other prize to share,
While a dusk cloud o'ershadows all the sky,
Dauntless he leaps, lur'd by the specious snare,
And desp'rate seizes the deceitful fly.

195

Writhing he flounces, frantic with his pain,
The feather'd hook deep-fix'd within his jaw;
His speckled fellows he implores in vain,
From his misfortune cautious they withdraw.

He runs, he shoots, indignant, through the brook,
And tugs the shifting line with ceaseless gill:
Angler, attend; be wary with your hook,
The present moment claims your nicest skill.

Fain would he seek his old secure retreat,
Beneath the tangles of an ancient tree,
Where he was wont to shun the sultry heat,
The monarch of the flood, from danger free.

A thousand ways he pulls the bending rod,
Struggling for freedom with incessant strife;
Or, by a secret well-dissembled fraud,
Floats down the stream, as if depriv'd of life.

But lo! not long abandon'd to despair,
Near and more near approaching to the side,
Again he stretches out the lengthen'd hair,
And furious lashes the unconscious tide.

196

Now see him bounce aloft, now plunging sink,
Vainly the barbed death to disengage;
Quick let the Angler play him to the brink,
In idle toil exhausted all his rage.

On the green turf he throws his beauteous prize,
Successive gasps dilate each crimson gill;
He gazes on it with insatiate eyes,
Nor fails to pass encomiums on his skill.

One strong effort ends all its feeble strife,
It rolls, it twists, it quivers with its tail;
Then spends in fluid air its panting life,
While oozing blood distains its polish'd mail.

O could the Muse end here her sylvan strain,
Nor wake to harsher notes the conscious reed!
Must pleasure ever be allied to pain,
As shadows from their substances ne'er freed!

When bursting torrents from the skies descend,
And swelling floods their feeble mounds o'erflow,
That seem abroad vindictive to portend
A second deluge on the world below;

197

To yonder swain in lonely copse repair,
(Can Censure here repress her wrathful tongue?)
See him the hook of sharpest barb prepare,
The living bag loose on his button hungs.

From this a helpless innocent he draws,
A reptile call'd, though heard not to complain,
Design'd to feel, by Nature's sapient laws,
The thrill of pleasure, and the smart of pain:

It from the kind investing moss he hales,
That moss its native cov'ring wont to grow,
And on the hook with merc'less hand empales,
Twisting convuls'd in agonizing wo.

Deep in the flood he throws the mangled bait,
A bold advent'rer from the finny throng,
With fatal greed, devours the certain fate,
Plunges, and heaves, and drags, and darts along.

Blame not, ye youths, to rural sports inclin'd,
The angry Muse, but as a friend severe.
Pity's the noblest passion of the mind,
A fiend an angel without pity were.

198

Think, Angler, what excruciating smart
The harmless victim, unappris'd, must feel,
When, close adherent to its bleeding heart,
Remorseless forth is torn the pointed steel.

Leave death and carnage to the reeking knife
That thins the fold, the meadow, and the stall;
No creature idly ravish'd of its life,
Alas! unable for relief to call.

Nor let your circling nets, with hollow sweep,
Exhaust the rivers of their speckled brood;
Convey your engines to the billowy deep,
Where squammy millions roam, a common good.

And, haply, if an useless prize too young
With feeble pull bends your reluctant rod,
Back let the slender forward thing be flung,
Toss not the infant on the mossy fod.

With piteous eye his tender youth behold,
Long should he yet in sportive freedom glide;
Few dawning suns have ting'd the hills with gold,
Since first his fins essay'd the silver tide.

199

Ere two succeeding springs, with genial beam,
In verdant foliage clothes the mantling grove,
Grown to full size, the father of the stream,
Agape for food, exulting will he rove.

Then, to the spacious river's grassy banks,
Humid with pearly drops of evening-dew,
Lead him, indulging o'er his youthful pranks,
The conquest justly is reserv'd for you.

200

PART II. FOWLING.

Inscribed to John Hamilton, Esq;

Charm'd with the sprightly thunder of the gun,
With well-bred pointer's nose sagacious charm'd;
For moors and parks, will you o'er pages run,
And spring the game by fire-side unarm'd?

This will your powder frugally preserve,
Haply to guard you from nocturnal foes;
Thus will no aching joint, no twitching nerve
With frequent starts disturb your night's repose.

201

When Autumn's golden treasures are led home,
To occupy the farmer's yards at large;
When flocks and well-fed herds promiscuous roam,
Free from the deep-sunk fence, and shepherd's charge;

While Morn, immantled in her purple robe,
Lights the transparent dew-drops on the green,
Or Noon extends her empire o'er the globe;
The sportive Fowler's music wakes around.

The fatal tube, of temper'd metal wrought,
Rests innocently glitt'ring on his arm;
With leaden death and sleeping thunder fraught,
Explosive soon to give the quick alarm.

Around his waist, girt like a virgin zone,
The bag-sustaining leathern belt is tied;
With careless air, loose o'er his shoulders thrown,
The powder-flask hangs dangling at his side.

Beware, ye game, ye feather'd tribe, beware,
Fly to the shade, nor trust the naked ground;
Behold the eager youth his wiles prepare,
And all your fond retreats explore around.

202

Softly he steals across the stubble field,
Nodding erewhile beneath luxuriant grain;
His hands the pointed piece precautious wield,
Oft cock'd, oft levell'd, but as yet in vain.

The scouring pointer snuffs with subtile nose
Each blast that stirs the air's elastic waves;
Of ev'ry gale that sighs, or breath that blows,
Sagaciously observant he behaves.

Now, many a park his weary steps had rang'd,
No ridge, no furrow his strict search eludes;
Sometimes the champain for the copse is chang'd,
To see what bush conceals the sportsman's goods.

How on his organs reason seems to gleam,
For scarce mere instinct could so oft succeed!
Not idly, with the wind's deceptive stream,
But full against it, he directs his speed.

Now, fresher odours swell the loaded breeze,
Certain assurance of the covey near;
Close and more close approaching by degrees,
The wary tread declares his prudent fear.

203

Straitway, flat-cow'ring on the ground, he sets
The nut-brown partridge, long time vainly spar'd;
The Fowler quick unfurls his swelling nets,
A waving prison ah! for her prepar'd.

Alarm'd and trembling, from the earth she springs,
But strives in vain to gain her native skies;
Vainly she flaps and flutters with her wings,
Breathless and spent, inclos'd by snares she lies.

Ah! what avails it, when the rising sun
Illum'd the east, (of freedom now bereft)
She saw delighted her fond younglings run
To feed on scatter'd ears by peasant left!

Ah! what avails the covert of the grove,
The shelter of the stubble, or the brake!
No more shall Autumn see her joyful rove,
Echo no more her guiltless clamours wake.

Oft too, the sportsman beats the country round,
When silver frost impearls the shining glade;
The lonely marsh, the hedge, the brambly ground,
The ditch, and wood, that boasted once a shade.

204

Quick glancing cross the vista's leafless view,
Oft is the hare arrested in her flight;
No more her early rambles to pursue,
Or print the virgin snow with footstep light.

In these bleak days, when Winter dreary reigns,
When deep-wreath'd, glist'ning snows his call obey,
Stretching with rapid swiftness o'er the plains,
The needy greyhound tears his screaming prey.

But why scenes foreign to our song describe,
As if relax'd the triumphs of the gun?
Enough here to depaint the feather'd tribe,
Nor Mercy's ear with woes officious stun.

What endless methods tyrant man invents
His universal empire to assert!
Seldom his eye, suffus'd with tears, relents,
Seldom one throb of pity melts his heart!

The death-charg'd gun, that scatters ruin round,
To his fell rage for blood subservient made;
The mastiff, ferret, terrier, and hound,
The guileful net, the lure, the ambuscade.

205

With these he ravages Creation through,
Rock, mountain, cavern, valley, river, wood;
Nothing lies hid from his officious view,
No creature safe, if fit for sport or—food.

See him, with uncommiserating heart,
To seize, to slaughter, all his arts employ;
No matter how forlorn, how keen their smart,
If they have life, that life he must destroy.

The mother from her helpless brood to snatch,
To tear the consort from her fondling mate,
How anxious some new mode of death to hatch?
How high his glee! his boasts how meanly great!

Oft does the woodcock, springing from the brake,
Shot to the heart, drop from the frozen sky!
The snipe, the wild-duck rising from the lake,
The dove, the lapwing, heedless as they fly!

Ah! how despis'd their gold-emburnish'd hue!
Their glossy necks, and plumes of velvet! all
Serve but to entertain the transient view,
To grace their death, but not prevent their fall!

206

Erewhile, each boasted his effulgent dyes,
And dress'd his gaudy wings with faultless taste;
Adorn'd the pond, incumbent wing'd the skies,
Or, in gay throngs, the slated palace grac'd.

Erewhile, with tender and assiduous care,
By faithful instinct accurately taught,
Forewarn'd, their mansion-nests did they prepare;
But now these rapt'rous scenes avail them nought.

Such recollections ne'er one moment stay
The cruel hand that perpetrates their woes;
When the swift bullet speeds its rapid way,
Vainly the spider's cobwebs interpose:

For see, the finch, the linnet, and the thrush,
Now meet, unmeriting, one common doom,
Conven'd unnumber'd on the crouded bush,
Or hopping harmless through the naked broom.

With steady look the fowler takes his aim,
Quick from the flint the flashy lightning flies;
Nor sooner is the powder wrapt in flame,
Than, stain'd with blood, some noted songster dies.

207

But spare, unthinking youth, the gentle race
That usher in with songs the verdant Spring;
Where they resort still sacred be the place,
And undeform'd with gore each tabby wing.

What else can charm our solitary hours,
What else solace our pensive evening-walk,
When the fond soul exerts her musing pow'rs,
Tir'd with the dull impertinence of talk?

Do they not rob themselves of sweet repose,
To call us, loit'ring, from the arms of sleep?
Do they not soothe us, when our eye-lids close,
With gentlest airs, and tuneful vigils keep?

Rather let birds of prey your wrath awake,
Behold your poultry panting in their claws;
Here merited and ample vengeance take,
And thus assert the weaker's injur'd cause.

208

PART III. HARE-HUNTING.

Inscribed to Andrew-Thomas Stewart, Esq;

Around Stewarthall's hereditary tow'rs,
While you in graceful horsemanship excell,
To exercise and health devote your hours,
Behold describ'd the Sport you love so well.

Far nobler thus your sacred time's employ'd,
Than in State-policy's loud wrangling schools;
Where, till a pension earn'd, or place enjoy'd,
Men become downright knaves, tho' better fools.

Where the description halts, or colours fail,
Your recollection will the rest supply;
Practice o'er Theory ever will prevail,
When Judgment would their rival merits try.

209

When the blythe songsters hail the rising morn,
And scatter'd rays peep o'er each eastern hill;
The huntsman rouses, with his winding horn,
Each dormant echo from her slumbers still.

The jocund summons wakes the drousy hounds,
They start, they shake, they snuff the early dawn;
Each little heart with expectation bounds,
Anon to pant along the dewy lawn.

Hark! what loud peals break on the ravish'd ear
Of music's noblest sounds!—up, sportsman, up;
Sleep's dalliance longer to provoke forbear,
Wan-cheek'd disease lurks in her opiate cup:

But flies, with all her pale consumptive train,
The hardy youth that leads an active life;
His mind from spleen, his body free from pain,
He feels no languor, and he knows no strife.

Up then, rejoic'd Creation calls aloud,
Nor waste your hours in Sloth's ignoble arms;
Now in the court the deep-ton'd beagles croud,
Whose melody upbraids you, while it charms.

210

Fresh from his crib the neighing steed is led,
Majestic, and exulting in his strength;
With haughty fling he tosses up his head,
Waving in curls his mane of graceful length.

With many a fiery glance his eye rolls round,
He champs the bit, and paws the stone-pav'd way;
Pricks his expanded ears at ev'ry sound,
And all his dauntless soul resigns to play.

Strait, from a seat encompass'd wide about
With lofty elms, secluded from the day,
The youthful crew advance, with jovial shout,
And pause, and wonder, that so long they lay.

Blooming with health, and cheerful as the morn,
By exercise from bile and vapours freed,
Pitying the man to female softness born,
With salient step each mounts his shining steed.

Onward they move, an active num'rous train,
Each puny elegance of life forgot;
While, to the early horn's enliv'ning strain,
Echo re-answers from her vocal grot.

211

Now, on the verge of Heav'n's cerulean height,
The sun arriv'd, looks boundless joy around;
Shooting abroad long dazzling streams of light,
Bright'ning ten thousand dew-drops on the ground.

His beams inspire delight before unknown,
And throw a novel charm on ev'ry place;
Each looks and smiles, as if he fill'd a throne,
His bliss, his all, concent'red in the Chace.

In distinct roving parties they divide,
Each has his station and his task assign'd;
Ambitious each, a no ignoble pride,
To leave his fellows loit'ring far behind.

One beats the brambly thicket's pendent sprays,
No bush, no hole, his strict survey escapes;
O'er the wide field another ceaseless strays,
A third his way through whins or rushes shapes.

The search though tedious, yet no youth complains,
Around the song, the jest, the laugh prevail;
The flutt'ring hare yet in her den remains,
Nor prints the grass, nor warms the loaded gale.

212

She listens from her once secure retreat,
Peeps cautious forth, with her own rustling stunn'd;
Returns then, trembling, to her lonely seat,
Alas! ere long as passionately shunn'd.

Inviron'd ah! with foes on ev'ry side,
Her heart melts down with terrour and amaze;
Where from impending danger can she hide?
Death threats in ev'ry project she essays.

With pangs of recollection and despair,
She ponders on her wonted hours of joy,
Unbounded when she stray'd devoid of care,
No blood-hound near, rapacious to destroy:

When no sounds discrepant swell'd on the breeze,
But music from a hawthorn's flow'ry seat;
The restless hum of honey-sipping bees,
The chirp of grasshopper, or lambkin's bleat.

This heightens her distress, augments her pain,
Her bosom with deep woes already torn;
Desp'rate, distracted, all delay in vain,
She steals away, abandon'd and forlorn.

213

Through many a brake she flies, and range of trees,
Too many paths her trait'rous footsteps press;
Her safety is betray'd in every breeze,
Her flight discover'd on each blade of grass.

Full on the track the stanch-nos'd dogs advance,
Catching the strong effluvias as they fly;
While the flush'd huntsmen bless the happy chance,
And mark the dubious maze with ravish'd eye.

Like lightning o'er the mossy glebe they speed,
Warm and more warm inhale the tainted dew;
Too well unrav'ling all her tracks succeed,
And gain upon her, now in obvious view.

Swift, and transported, o'er the level lawn,
With loosen'd rein the rapid courser flies;
Ne'er yet by puny art of sculpture drawn,
Art somewhat still remote from life implies.

His mighty soul disdaining to be last,
Still in the front he quickens his career;
The marsh, drain, precipice, and quickset past,
No obstacle can strike his soul with fear.

214

Fierce and impatient, all on fire he glows,
And drinks with greedy ears the jovial noise;
Down his warm sides the stream effusive flows,
Yet nought but triumph his big thought employs.

But what fine form attracts the Muse's eye,
Mounted on yonder steed of dappled brown?
An angel, sure, descending from the sky,
Ne'er mixes with the huntsman and the clown.

A female form?—to elegance of taste,
To delicacy, to refinement born!
Let not the modest sex be thus disgrac'd,
The banter of the other, or the scorn—

Heav'n has affix'd the boundaries of sex,
For each religiously to keep within,
Else, all wise order wantonly perplex,
Rebel 'gainst Reason, and 'gainst Nature sin.

Can gentle love inspire that sturdy heart
Which for the chace with awkward ardour pants?
To be pursu'd be still the woman's part,
If wishing to be something more than—aunts.

215

But see, o'er yonder park, or stubbled plain,
The fear-wing'd hare her eager course urge on,
Stretch ev'ry limb, each active sinew strain,
Though half her vigour spent, her courage gone.

To yonder hill she presses up her way,
Or headlong down precipitates her flight;
Bleeds her soft bosom on the prickly spray,
Bounces o'er the sunk fence, or hedge-fac'd height.

Sometimes, with sly device, her last resort,
She boldly plunges where some river flows;
Or, warily describes (as oft in sport)
A winding course, to over-reach her foes.

Upon a little eminence she stands,
Round drops of sweat pour down her darken'd face;
Full to the gale her list'ning ear expands,
Deafen'd with the loud thunder of the chace.

In shelt'ring copse fain would she cease from toil,
Fain rest her aching joints in soft repose,
Or, lowly cow'ring on the furrow'd soil,
Hope to escape her unrelenting foes.

216

False expectation! nearer still they press,
While deeper tones freight ev'ry breeze that blows;
Echo seems mocking her extreme distress,
And distant hills but multiply her woes.

Once more she puts her safety in her flight,
And unperceiv'd, dejected steals away;
A furious hound disturbs her timid sight,
In ev'ry shrub, in ev'ry rustling spray.

From bush to bush, from haunt to haunt, she speeds,
And flutt'ring visits all her well-known seats,
Nor for a while approaching ruin heeds,
So much enamour'd of her old retreats.

But ah! delay augments her heart-felt pangs,
The wide-mouth'd dogs their certain prize pursue—
Now by a cobweb-thread her safety hangs—
One last effort is all her strength can do.

This she exerts, and reels with wild affright,
Backward and forward, stagg'ring in her gait;
Her sanguine murderers arriv'd in sight,
And she unable to protract her fate.

217

Dark, dark her visage looks—what rueful wo
Lours on her blacken'd face, with wildness mix'd!
Stupid with anguish, starting to and fro,
Her large black eyes stare in their sockets fix'd.

How terrible this moment of suspense!
Her cries infantile pity seem to crave—
What interposing hand will snatch her hence,
Like gracious Heav'n beneficent to save!

But, deaf to mercy, as the senseless rock,
That hangs its shadow o'er the grumbling deep;
Hard as the oak that braves the tempest's shock,
With her loud screams their triumphs cadence keep.

The bloody pack, hot-streaming, stretch along,
In short quick heaves she languishes for breath;
Close at her heels they growl, a hostile throng,
With jaws wide-open'd for devouring death.

Oppress'd she sinks—despair swells in her eye,
Distraction bursts forth in a falling tear—
Turn, turn aside, nor see the victim die!
Ah! from her plaints avert the anguish'd ear!

218

Harmless and meek, alas! what has she done,
From tyrant man to meet a fate so hard?
Let her fall victim to the loaded gun,
If e'er with blood she stain'd the treasur'd yard.

Rather the fox's dark retreats explore,
Your skill oft will the wily knave elude;
Nor your pursuit give impotently o'er,
Till the arch thief dies for the public good.

See him steal faithless, when night's shadows fall,
Where your warm feather'd fam'ly roosting sit,
When darkness hides his outrages from all,
And frequent murder, join'd with theft, commit.

Shall then your poultry the fell ruffian feed,
Grown by successes bold, to blood inur'd;
Nor yet the insolent assassin bleed,
By crafty arts, and stratagems secur'd?

But vainly would the weeping Muse engage
Compassion to her woes—behold! they tear
Her guiltless breast, with more than savage rage;
Gentler the famish'd hound, or forest-bear.

219

And while her dying sobs relief implore,
Dash down her quiv'ring entrails on the ground,
While dogs impure lick up the reeking gore,
And men and steeds exulting gather round.

Mangled she lies, stiff ev'ry springy limb,
Wont to transport her o'er the less'ning plain;
Her glaring eyes in death's cold languor dim,
And all besmear'd with many a clotted stain.

But let the numbers farther cease to flow,
Haply, to sport enthusiastic swains,
Blended too much with elegiac wo,
The Muse when she should triumph, but complains.

Yet, though the hardy, unreflecting heart
Glows in the chace, as flints are fir'd by steel;
Well may the Muse with confidence assert,
That breast's not human which can never feel.

If to extremes mankind may ever lean,
(Our common fault, from meanness, or from pride)
Howe'er our acts explain ill what we mean,
The errour's surely best on Mercy's side.