University of Virginia Library

CANTO V.

Nimrod.—
“My life, I rather fear, supplies
But little you may not despise:
But still, you sages of the schools Will not declare us sportsmen fools,
If each, in his due weight and measure,
Should analyse his pain and pleasure!
'Tis true for forty years and more,
(For I have long been past threescore,)
My life has never ceas'd to be One scene of rural jollity:
But hurrying Time has fled so fast, My former pastimes all are past:
Yet, though our nature's seasons are Mix'd up with portion due of care;
Though I have many dangers run, I'm still alive at seventy-one.
—Nimrod was always in his place; He was the first in evr'y chace:
Nor last when, o'er th'enliv'ning bowl,
The hunters felt the flow of soul:
The first, when, at the break of day, It was—To Cover, hark away!
The last, when midnight heard the strain
Which sung the pleasures of the plain.”

Syntax.—
“But hunting lasts not all the year:
How did you then the moments cheer
In the vacation of your sport? To what employ did you resort?
You read, perhaps, and can unfold How in old times the hunter bold
Did, with strong lance and jav'ling slay The brindled lion as his prey,
Or chas'd the boar, or sought reward In spotted clothing of the pard.”

Nimrod.—
“I've not quite lost the little knowledge,
Which I obtain'd in school and college;
But the old Greeks, those fighting-cocks,
Did not pretend to hunt the fox:
For where, think you, their hounds were bred,
Or how, think you, their dogs are fed,
If it be true as I have read,
That in a freak and at a sup, They'd turn and eat their huntsman up?
No, Sir, my books enjoy themselves
In long known quiet on their shelves.
—In summer, when the chase is o'er,
And echoing horn is heard no more,
The harvest then employ'd my care,
The sheaves to bind, the flocks to shear;
The autumn did its fruitage yield In ev'ry orchard, ev'ry field,
And emptied casks again receive The juice Pomona loves to give.
The winter comes, and once again Echoes awake in wood and plain,
And the loud cry of men and hound,
Was heard again the country round.
Though I those days no more shall see,
They're gone and past and lost to me:
But as a poet doth relate, When the world's victor feasting sat
And trumpets gave the martial strain,
He fought his battles o'er again;—
Thus I can from my windows see Scenes of the Nimrod chivalry;
And with these old dogs on the floor, I talk the former chases o'er.
There's Music, whose melodious tone
Was to each pathless covert known;
And Captain who was never wrong,
Whenever heard to give his tongue;
There's Paragon whose nose could boast,
To gain the trail whenever lost:
And Darling, in the scented track
Would often lead the clam'rous pack;
While Reynard chill despair would feel
When Favourite was at his heel.
Doctor, these dogs which round me lay,
Were famous creatures in their day,
And while they live they ne'er shall cease
To know what plenty is and peace;
Be my companions as you see, And eke out their old age with me.
With them I sit and feel the glow
Which fond remembrance doth bestow:
And when, in fancy's dream, I hear The tumults break upon my ear,
The shouting cry, the joyous sounds
Of huntsmen and the deep-mouth'd hounds:
My old age ceases to lament My crippled limbs, my vigour spent;
I, for those moments, lose my pain, And halloo as if young again.
'Tis true, in leaps I've dar'd to take, That I have often risk'd my neck:
But though, thank Heaven, I've sav'd my back,
My ev'ry rib has had a crack.
And twice, 'tis true, the surgeon's hand
Has my hard batter'd scull trepann'd;
To which I had a broken arm: And now I've told you all the harm
Which my remembrance bids me trace In my adventures of the chace.
—For these swell'd hands and tender feet
That fix me in this gouty seat,
Which keep me coop'd as I appear, And as you see me sitting here,
'Twas not my age of hunting past, Which thus has kennel'd me at last:
It is Port-wine and that alone
Which brought those wretched symptoms on.
'Twas not the pleasures of the day
That bade my stubborn health decay,
But the libations of the night, To which I owe this piteous plight.
Now of this mansion take a view, And Doctor, I believe it true,
Could it be gaug'd and fill'd with liquor,
Myself, my sportsmen and the Vicar,
Whate'er of wine it might contain Have drunk it o'er and o'er again.
—Philosophers and sage grave men
Have, by their preaching and their pen,
Enforc'd it as a certain rule Of conduct in the human school,
That some prime feeling doth preside
In each man's bosom as his guide,
Or right or wrong, as it may prove The passions and affections move:
Thus some on lower objects pore, Others aloft sublimely soar,
While many take the devious way
And scarce know how or where they stray:
But I ne'er thought of moving higher
Than a plain hunting country squire,
And you will think perhaps my aim
Has been content with vulgar fame,
When it has been my highest boast,
To ride the best and drink the most;
To guide the hounds with matchless grace,
To be the leader of the chace,
And, when 'twas over, to be able To lay my guests beneath the table,
While I, with no unsteady head, Could walk unstagg'ring to my bed,
Laugh at a milk-sop's whimp'ring sorrow,
Nor feel a head-ache on the morrow.
You grave Divines perhaps may flout it,
But still I love to talk about it,
And sometimes too my neighbours join;
Though, while they take their gen'rous wine,
I feel at length 'tis very cruel To pledge their toasts in water-gruel.”

Syntax.—
“Let then your water-gruel season
Awake the slumb'ring power of reason!
You think on pleasures but in vain, Pleasures you ne'er can know again:
Arm then your breast against the fall Which, soon or late, awaits us all:
The chase of life will soon be past,
And Death will earth us all at last.”

Nimrod.—
“You are a scholar and can tell
Whether I reason ill or well;
But, you must know, I've often thought,
That what the Classic poets taught,
And all their sabling fancy yields Of Styx and the Elysian fields,
Was not ill-suited to engage The hopes of such an early age;
And now, when rightly understood, Is no mean motive to be good;
Where virtuous spirits might enjoy Without an end, without alloy,
Whatever was their prime delight, Before they pass'd the shades of night.
—If I remember well, we read Heroes enjoy'd heroic deed:
Bards did their fav'rite themes rehearse
In raptures of immortal verse;
While there the hunters could pursue, The game for ever in their view.
Elysian horses ne'er would halt, Elysian hounds ne'er be at fault,
And neither wanted corn or care, For there of course they liv'd on air:
While on those fields forbid to roam,
The Poacher Death could never come.”

Syntax.—
“I thank you 'Squire for the treat
Of this same classical conceit:
But sure I am it would not do; It could not be a Heaven for you.
Though hunted with immortal skill Elysian hounds could never kill,
For foxes there would never die, But run to all eternity:
And as they would not lose their breath,
You ne'er could be in at the death.
—I willingly allow the fame Due to the Greek and Roman name,
But to their genius 'twas not given
E'en to conceive the Christian's Heaven.
We of this age alone can see The form of Immortality,
That's fashion'd to a higher sphere,
When this our world shall disappear:
On that alone our hopes should rest, For be assur'd—it is the best;
And when from hence fate bids you go,
I trust that you will find it so.
—I've spoke the language of my heart,— So now permit me to depart.
The storm is past, the show'rs are flown.
And I must hasten to be gone.”

Syntax.—
“My Host, I doubt not, told me true
When he referr'd me, Sir, to you,
That you would to my mind explain The meaning of this noisome train,
Which, in the ev'ning of the day, Not only stopp'd me in my way,
But with their rout were pleas'd to greet me,
And with most foul salutes to meet me.
Its history perhaps may be Far in remote antiquity,
But mem'ry does not now recall A trace of its original.”

Curate.—
“Nor yet can I,—but I suppose
It was among the vulgar shows
When Butler wrote, as his droll wit In Hudibras has painted it:
A book writ in most merry strain,
The boast of Charles the second's reign,
And so much fun it did impart, The King could say it all by heart,
Though you must know, he quite forgot
To ask if Butler starv'd or not.
But I shall not attempt to tell A story you could paint so well
—As to this custom, I must own, It might as well be let alone;
But when in matrimonial strife A husband's cudgell'd by his wife,
In country-place, 'tis rather common
This way to compliment the woman,
And by this noisy, nasty plan, To cast disgrace upon the man.”

Syntax.—
“But tell me, if this kind of sporting
May happen when one goes a-courting;
And, if he may these honours prove,
Who's cudgell'd while he's making love.
If so, I am already done, To figure in a Skimmington.”

Curate.—
“No, no, the pair must mated be
Who suffer this foul courtesy;
But how, good Sir, can I suppose That you encounter'd female blows,
That any woman low or high Would treat you with indignity?”

Syntax.—
“It is not surely to my glory;—
But listen, and I'll tell my story:
—Sometime ago, I lost my wife, And mine is now a single life:
When by the counsels of a friend,
Who thought my present state to mend,
I, without telling whens and hows, To a fair widow made my bows:
A buxom, tall and comely dame,
Who wish'd, 'twas said, to change her name,
And if I could her thoughts divine,
Would not, perhaps, have sneez'd at mine.
She was with elegance array'd, And full-trimm'd fashion's ton display'd.
We chatter'd first about the weather;
But when our chairs got near together,
And hints had pass'd of tender things;
She took her lute and touch'd the strings.
She sang, and her soft accents prov'd How sweet it was to be belov'd;
When a confounded, cumbrous screen,
That kept us both from being seen,
Surpris'd us by its sudden fall: After a most tremendous squall,
As she was sinking with alarms, I caught the fair-one in my arms,
Where after lying still and quiet, She thought it fine to breed a riot;
Nay, when the hurrying servants came, Call'd me by ev'ry horrid name;
Then, with a blow I scarce could stand,
She to my head applied her hand,
And ev'ry finger had a nail That did my pallid cheeks assail,
Which, as I vainly struggling stood,
Were seen defac'd by trickling blood.
Then, as she call'd me knave and brute, I felt the fury of her foot,
Whose pointed strokes were sharp and shocking,
And, were I to unroll my stocking,
The vengeful marks I now could show Of kickings got three weeks ago:
And, my sad story to prolong,
She did not spare her shrill-ton'd tongue.
When she was in my arms enfolded
How I was kick'd and cuff'd and scolded!
No hen-peck'd mate was e'er worse used,
My face was scratch'd, my legs were bruis'd,
My wig despoil'd, my neck-cloth torn: So I ran off, amaz'd, forlorn,
From all this am'rous fire and fuel, To poultices and water-gruel:
But thanks to Heaven, who gave me life,
The Harridan was not my wife.
—Thus I have plac'd before your view, A history, so sad, so true,
As it may be of use to you.
Shun then all widows, nor be seen
To court a dame, where there's a screen.”

Curate.—
“These things will happen, as we see,
From time and chance we none are free, Each must fulfil his destiny.
—I also can unfold a fray, Which was brought on by am'rous play,
Though not so splendid in its way,
Nor was such triumph to be won As with your high-wrought Amazon.
“The time's long past, and I've forgot
Whether I had been rude or not.
I cannot say or yes or no, Though probably it might be so;
But, poising a large folio book, My landlady's outrageous cook,
Who, whate'er were her other charms, Had a most potent pair of arms,
Laid me all prostrate on the floor, And thus concluded my amour.
—'Twas Raleigh's Hist'ry of the World,
That Sally Dripping's fury hurl'd;
But as the world had ta'en the field, I felt it no disgrace to yield:
And thus, I think, my Rev'rend brother
Our fates resemble one another.”

Syntax.—
“Our tempers, too, for you have spoke,
As is my taste in classic joke.
Nor do I wonder some may see A likeness between you and me:
Though that indeed might well appear Before we met together here;
Because in ev'ry town is seen A book I wrote to cure the spleen,
In which, by faithful art pourtray'd, My portrait is at length display'd.
I see you've my facetious grin, Nor do you lack my length of chin;
I think too as my eyes presage That we may be of equal age,
And in our sev'ral shapes are shown An equal share of skin and bone.
So far I think we're rather like, As may the calm observer strike:
Besides, the church doth clothe our back In the similitude of black,
And we prefer our brains to rig In the grave dignity of wig,
Leaving the simple hair to grace The dandy preacher's boyish face.
—So far so like our persons are, Such our appearance must declare,
That it may make good humour laugh,
As we our evening bev'rage quaff,
While I may hope that we may find A better likeness in the mind.”