 | Partridge-Shooting, An Eclogue |  |
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PARTRIDGE-SHOOTING, AN ECLOGUE.
From Ætna's mountains, and Sicilian plains,
The groves of Pindus, and Arcadian swains,
My sportive Muse, on rural pleasures bent,
Now roves sequester'd in the fields of Kent.
Will Yorke a moment from the Bar withdraw,
Awhile suspend the business of the Law?
Trembling I'll wreathe this pastoral chaplet round
Thy brows, already with the laurel crown'd;
For thou hast shown, inspir'd by warmth divine,
That Themis is a sister of the Nine.
Hear then, while I adventurous explore
A path by poets never trod before.
The groves of Pindus, and Arcadian swains,
My sportive Muse, on rural pleasures bent,
Now roves sequester'd in the fields of Kent.
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Awhile suspend the business of the Law?
Trembling I'll wreathe this pastoral chaplet round
Thy brows, already with the laurel crown'd;
For thou hast shown, inspir'd by warmth divine,
That Themis is a sister of the Nine.
Hear then, while I adventurous explore
A path by poets never trod before.
On the stream's margin let the Fisher stand,
The taper angle trembling in his hand,
His cool amusement soberly pursue,
And soak his footsteps in unwholesome dew;
I envy not the purchase of his pains,
The cold he catches, or the fish he gains.
What pangs it gives the soft impassion'd heart,
With fly of nature, or with fly of art,
To cheat the dappled tenants of the brook,
And tear their stomachs with the torturing hook!
More cruel still, uncertain prize to gain,
To rack the worm with agonizing pain!
Me no such harsh, tormenting pastimes please;
To pale-ey'd Fishers I relinquish these.
The taper angle trembling in his hand,
His cool amusement soberly pursue,
And soak his footsteps in unwholesome dew;
I envy not the purchase of his pains,
The cold he catches, or the fish he gains.
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With fly of nature, or with fly of art,
To cheat the dappled tenants of the brook,
And tear their stomachs with the torturing hook!
More cruel still, uncertain prize to gain,
To rack the worm with agonizing pain!
Me no such harsh, tormenting pastimes please;
To pale-ey'd Fishers I relinquish these.
Let the mad Hunter, with his hounds and horn,
Rage o'er the plains, and fright the blushing Morn,
Thro' woods, bogs, hedges the hare's windings trace,
And triumph in the glories of the chase:
Or, with his stancher hounds of mottled hue,
The fox, sly felon of the night, pursue
O'er the steep hill, broad stream, or lengthen'd down,
Risk his steed's neck, and dislocate his own:
His hair-breadth 'scapes, his desperate delights,
His clamorous days, his bacchanalian nights,
I envy not: me no such tumults please;
To hardy Hunters I relinquish these.
Rage o'er the plains, and fright the blushing Morn,
Thro' woods, bogs, hedges the hare's windings trace,
And triumph in the glories of the chase:
Or, with his stancher hounds of mottled hue,
The fox, sly felon of the night, pursue
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Risk his steed's neck, and dislocate his own:
His hair-breadth 'scapes, his desperate delights,
His clamorous days, his bacchanalian nights,
I envy not: me no such tumults please;
To hardy Hunters I relinquish these.
But come, thou peaceful Pointer, meek and bland
Obsequious to my eye, my voice, my hand;
Together let us beat these gamesul fields,
Try what the open, what the covert yields;
The standing corn, the seedy clover shun,
And vindicate the honour of the Gun.
Obsequious to my eye, my voice, my hand;
Together let us beat these gamesul fields,
Try what the open, what the covert yields;
The standing corn, the seedy clover shun,
And vindicate the honour of the Gun.
When now the temperate sun shines mildly clear,
‘And Libra weighs in equal scales the year’;
Of Ceres' boon the yellow fields are shorn,
And every barn is stor'd with Autumn's corn:
Let the keen sportsman, rising with the dawn,
Fear not to dash the dew-drops on the lawn,
But not unsocial; let the cheerful friend,
Alike equipt, the sylvan sport attend,
Experienc'd well to take unerring aim,
Retrieve lost birds, or mark the scatter'd game;
Yet who enlivening converse can support,
And cheer with chat the intervals of sport.
See, how with joy elate the pointers bound,
And course the plain in many a festive round!
Conscious of game, before their lord they play,
And wanton in the beauty of the day.
Vain is the sportsman's toil to hunt the meads,
When now the covey in the stubble feeds:
Try then the fields bespangled all with dew,
Where late the wheat, or bearded barley grew:
The busy dogs, inquisitive around,
Sagacious quarter every inch of ground,
Fleet o'er the furrows the soft breeze inhale,
And raptur'd own the partridge-tainted gale;
But when warm scents assure the covey near,
They hunt with caution, and they point with fear.
Lo! faithful Phyllis on the rising lands
Creeps wary, step by step, and cow'rs, and stands!
True to their guide, the stanch observant train
Stop short, and fix like statues on the plain:
Can Rysbrack's art, or Wilton's soft address,
Such keen, attentive attitude express?
One leg held up, with stiff-erected tails,
They snuff the vapour, and enjoy the gales.
Sportsmen, walk up—with caution spring the game—
Fluttering they rise—now take your certain aim
Calm and compos'd; let each man single one,
Nor maim the covey with the scattering gun;
And lo! a brace falls headlong to the ground;
Shot dead, they heard not the gun's thundering sound.
To seize the game the ready pointers stand,
Then pleas'd resign it to the master's hand:
Couch'd on the ground, by discipline subdued,
They wait with patience for the charge renew'd.
‘And Libra weighs in equal scales the year’;
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And every barn is stor'd with Autumn's corn:
Let the keen sportsman, rising with the dawn,
Fear not to dash the dew-drops on the lawn,
But not unsocial; let the cheerful friend,
Alike equipt, the sylvan sport attend,
Experienc'd well to take unerring aim,
Retrieve lost birds, or mark the scatter'd game;
Yet who enlivening converse can support,
And cheer with chat the intervals of sport.
See, how with joy elate the pointers bound,
And course the plain in many a festive round!
Conscious of game, before their lord they play,
And wanton in the beauty of the day.
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When now the covey in the stubble feeds:
Try then the fields bespangled all with dew,
Where late the wheat, or bearded barley grew:
The busy dogs, inquisitive around,
Sagacious quarter every inch of ground,
Fleet o'er the furrows the soft breeze inhale,
And raptur'd own the partridge-tainted gale;
But when warm scents assure the covey near,
They hunt with caution, and they point with fear.
Lo! faithful Phyllis on the rising lands
Creeps wary, step by step, and cow'rs, and stands!
True to their guide, the stanch observant train
Stop short, and fix like statues on the plain:
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Such keen, attentive attitude express?
One leg held up, with stiff-erected tails,
They snuff the vapour, and enjoy the gales.
Sportsmen, walk up—with caution spring the game—
Fluttering they rise—now take your certain aim
Calm and compos'd; let each man single one,
Nor maim the covey with the scattering gun;
And lo! a brace falls headlong to the ground;
Shot dead, they heard not the gun's thundering sound.
To seize the game the ready pointers stand,
Then pleas'd resign it to the master's hand:
Couch'd on the ground, by discipline subdued,
They wait with patience for the charge renew'd.
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Let not the Belles, too delicate, report
False of the gun, and term it cruel sport:
The rising partridge, as in air he wheels,
Receives the death-wound, which he never feels:
But tender Cynthia, with the sweetest breath,
Bids Rufo whip her sucking pigs to death;
Trusts twelve dear linnets to a careless page,
Who starves the lovely songsters in the cage;
Or, more amazing, the good-natur'd Fair
Lets Damon die in absolute despair.
False of the gun, and term it cruel sport:
The rising partridge, as in air he wheels,
Receives the death-wound, which he never feels:
But tender Cynthia, with the sweetest breath,
Bids Rufo whip her sucking pigs to death;
Trusts twelve dear linnets to a careless page,
Who starves the lovely songsters in the cage;
Or, more amazing, the good-natur'd Fair
Lets Damon die in absolute despair.
Away, my dogs! the covey still pursue,
To the close covert of the copse they flew,
There we retrieve, and spring them one by one,
Sweet transport to the lovers of the gun!
Lo! trusty Don, suspicious of the copse,
Tries every track—and now assur'd he stops—
True to their guide, the stanch observant train
Stop short, and stand like statues on the plain.
Now let the vigorous sons of sport divide,
And close besiege the copse on every side:
Upsprings the bird, the shot far swifter flies,
Arrests him in his course, he falls, he dies;
Upsprings his mate—one fatal corn of lead,
True to its aim, has pierc'd his tender head;
See, how he wheels, he tow'rs, and mounts on high!
Then leaves his life aloft, down-tumbling from the sky.
Again we charge, and new excursions make;
We search the futze, the stubble, and the brake,
The thistly pastures, and the grassy plains,
And birds abundant recompense our pains;
The shot glanc'd sudden intercepts their flight;
Our nets grow heavy, and our shot-bags light.
To the close covert of the copse they flew,
There we retrieve, and spring them one by one,
Sweet transport to the lovers of the gun!
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Tries every track—and now assur'd he stops—
True to their guide, the stanch observant train
Stop short, and stand like statues on the plain.
Now let the vigorous sons of sport divide,
And close besiege the copse on every side:
Upsprings the bird, the shot far swifter flies,
Arrests him in his course, he falls, he dies;
Upsprings his mate—one fatal corn of lead,
True to its aim, has pierc'd his tender head;
See, how he wheels, he tow'rs, and mounts on high!
Then leaves his life aloft, down-tumbling from the sky.
Again we charge, and new excursions make;
We search the futze, the stubble, and the brake,
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And birds abundant recompense our pains;
The shot glanc'd sudden intercepts their flight;
Our nets grow heavy, and our shot-bags light.
If fresh and active still, our beat we change,
And seek the woodland wilds where pheasants range:
Th' attendants set our coupled spaniels free,
Eager alike, for game and liberty.
See! how transported o'er the fields they spread;
Some force the copse, and some the thicket thread:
With nostrils curl'd, they wag the pliant tail;
Their merry notes avow the recent trail.
But lo! at hand a field of sable hue,
Where stalky beans thick rang'd in order grew;
The spaniels thither push in haste away;
For there the pheasant ever loves to stray.
Hark! hark! they quest: we briskly mend our pace,
Lest the keen dogs too distant start the chase.
Fix'd in attention now our joy runs high,
And Expectation sharpens every eye,
Till bright in varied plumes, on whirring wings,
From his rough haunt the gay cock-pheasant springs;
Chuckling he mounts, he tow'rs, with pride clate,
But feels, alas! the fiery wound of fate.
‘Ah! what avails his glossy varying dyes,
‘His purple crest, and scarlet-circled eyes,
‘The vivid green his shining plumes unfold,
‘His painted wings, and breast that flames with gold?’
Yet shall these varying dyes of spangled sheen,
These plumes distinct with gold and vivid green,
Form'd to a muff, on Laura's lovely arm,
Inflame our bosoms, while her hands they warm.
And seek the woodland wilds where pheasants range:
Th' attendants set our coupled spaniels free,
Eager alike, for game and liberty.
See! how transported o'er the fields they spread;
Some force the copse, and some the thicket thread:
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Their merry notes avow the recent trail.
But lo! at hand a field of sable hue,
Where stalky beans thick rang'd in order grew;
The spaniels thither push in haste away;
For there the pheasant ever loves to stray.
Hark! hark! they quest: we briskly mend our pace,
Lest the keen dogs too distant start the chase.
Fix'd in attention now our joy runs high,
And Expectation sharpens every eye,
Till bright in varied plumes, on whirring wings,
From his rough haunt the gay cock-pheasant springs;
Chuckling he mounts, he tow'rs, with pride clate,
But feels, alas! the fiery wound of fate.
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‘His purple crest, and scarlet-circled eyes,
‘The vivid green his shining plumes unfold,
‘His painted wings, and breast that flames with gold?’
Yet shall these varying dyes of spangled sheen,
These plumes distinct with gold and vivid green,
Form'd to a muff, on Laura's lovely arm,
Inflame our bosoms, while her hands they warm.
Enough! enough! no longer we pursue
The scatter'd covey in the tainted dew.
No more we charge, nor new excursions make,
Nor beat the copse, the bean-field, nor the brake.
O pleasing sport! far better priz'd than wealth!
Thou spring of spirits, and thou source of health,
Thou giv'st, when thus our leisure we employ,
To life the relish, and the zest to joy.
O may I still, on rural pleasures bent,
Rove devious in sequester'd fields of Kent;
Ease, study, exercise successive blend,
Nor want the blessing of a cheerful friend!
The scatter'd covey in the tainted dew.
No more we charge, nor new excursions make,
Nor beat the copse, the bean-field, nor the brake.
O pleasing sport! far better priz'd than wealth!
Thou spring of spirits, and thou source of health,
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To life the relish, and the zest to joy.
O may I still, on rural pleasures bent,
Rove devious in sequester'd fields of Kent;
Ease, study, exercise successive blend,
Nor want the blessing of a cheerful friend!
Forbear, my dogs! now mid-day heats prevail,
The scent grows languid in the sultry gale;
Herds seek the shades where cooling fountains well,
And sweet the music of yon noon-tide bell.
The scent grows languid in the sultry gale;
Herds seek the shades where cooling fountains well,
And sweet the music of yon noon-tide bell.
| Partridge-Shooting, An Eclogue | |