Occasional Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Behold (my Friend) the Rosy-finger'd Morn
With Blushes on her Face,
Peeps o'er yon azure Hill;
Rich Gems the Trees enchase,
Pearls from each Bush distill,
Arise, arise, and hail the Light new-born.

2

Hark! hark! the merry Horn calls, come away:
Quit, quit thy downy Bed;
Break from Amynta's Arms;

142

Oh! let it ne'er be said,
That all, that all her Charms,
Tho' she's as Venus fair, can tempt thy Stay.

3

Perplex thy Soul no more with Cares below,
For what will Pelf avail?
Thy Courser paws the Ground,
Each Beagle cocks his Tail,
They spend their Mouths around,
While Health, and Pleasure, smiles on ev'ry Brow:

4

Try Huntsmen all the Brakes, spread all the Plain,
Now, now, she's gone away,
Strip, strip, with speed pursue;
The jocund God of Day,
Who fain our Sport wou'd view,
See, see, he flogs his fiery Steeds in vain.

143

5

Pour down, like a Flood from the Hills, brave Boys,
On the Wings of the Wind
The merry Beagles fly;
Dull Sorrow lags behind:
Ye shrill Ecchoes reply,
Catch each flying Sound, and double our Joys.

6

Ye Rocks, Woods, and Caves our Musick repeat,
The bright Spheres thus above,
A gay refulgent Train,
Harmoniously move,
O'er yon celestial Plain
Like us whirl along, in Concert so sweet.

7

Now Puss threads the Brakes, and heavily flies,
At the Head of the Pack
Old Fidler bears the Bell,

144

Ev'ry Foyl he hunts back,
And aloud rings her Knell,
'Till forc'd into view, she pants, and she dies.

8

In Life's dull Round thus we toil, and we sweat;
Diseases, Grief, and Pain,
An implacable Crew,
While we double in vain,
Unrelenting pursue,
'Till quite hunted down, we yield with regret.

9

This Moment is ours, come live while ye may,
What's decreed by dark Fate,
Is not in our own Pow'r,
Since To-morrow's too late,
Take the present kind Hour;
With Wine chear the Night, as Sports bless the Day.