Whence solitude derives peculiar charms,
And heaven directed thought his bosom warms.
Just where the parting boughs light shadows play,
Scarce in the shade, nor in the scorching day,
Stretch'd on the turf he lies, a peopled bed,
Where swarming insects creep around his head.
The small, dust-colour'd beetle climbs with pain
O'er the smooth plantain leaf, a spacious plain!
Thence higher still, by countless steps convey'd,
He gains the summit of a shivering blade,
And flirts his filmy wings, and looks around,
Exulting in his distance from the ground.
The tender speckled moth here dancing seen,
The vaulting grasshopper of glossy green,
And all prolific summer's sporting train,
Their little lives by various powers sustain.
But what can unassisted vision do?
What, but recoil where most it would pursue;
His patient gaze but finish with a sigh,
When music waking speaks the skylark nigh.
Just starting from the corn, he cheerly sings,
And trusts with conscious pride his downy wings;
Still louder breaths, and in the face of day
Mounts up, and calls on Giles to mark his way.
Close to his eyes his hat he instant bends,
And forms a friendly telescope, that lends
Just aid enough to dull the glaring light,
And place the wandering bird before his sight,
That oft beneath a light cloud sweeps along
Lost for a while, yet pours the varied song;
The eye still follows, and the cloud moves by,
Again he stretches up the clear blue sky;
His form, his motion, undistinguish'd quite,
Save when he wheels direct from shade to light:
E'en then the songster a mere speck became,
Gliding like fancy's bubbles in a dream,
The gazer sees; but yielding to repose,
Unwittingly his jaded eyelids close.
Delicious sleep! From sleep who could forbear,
With guilt no more than Giles, and no more care?
Peace o'er his slumbers waves her guardian wing,
Nor conscience once disturbs him with a sting;
He wakes refresh'd from every trivial pain,
And takes his pole, and brushes round again.
Its dark green hue, its sicklier tints all fail,
And ripening harvest rustles in the gale.
A glorious sight, if glory dwells below,
Where Heaven's munificence makes all the show
O'er every field and golden prospect found,
That glads the ploughman's Sunday morning's round,
When on some eminence he takes his stand,
To judge the smiling produce of the land.
Here vanity slinks back, her head to hide ;
What is there here to flatter human pride?
The towering fabric, or the dome's loud roar,
And steadfast columns may astonish more,
Where the charm'd gazer long delighted stays,
Yet traced but to the architect the praise;
Whilst here, the veriest clown that treads the sod,
Without one scruple gives the praise to God;
And twofold joys possess his raptured mind,
From gratitude and admiration join'd.
Here, midst the boldest triumphs of her worth,
Nature herself invites the reapers forth;
Dar23 the keen sickle from its twelvemonth's rest,
And gives that ardour which in every breast
From infancy to age alike appears,
When the first sheaf its plumy top uprears.
No rake takes here what Heaven to all bestows-
Children of want, for you the bounty flows!
And every cottage from the plenteous store
Receives a burden nightly at its door.
Hark! where the sweeping scythe new slips
along:
Each sturdy mower, emulous and strong,
Whose writhing form meridian heat defies,
Bends o'er his work, and every sinew tries;
Prostrates the waving treasure at his feet,
But spares the rising clover, short and sweet.
Come, health! come, jollity! light-footed, come;
Here hold your revels, and make this your home.
Each heart awaits and hails you as its own;
Each moisten'd brow, that scorns to wear a frown
The unpeopled dwelling mourns its tenants
stray'd;
E'en the domestic, laughing dairy-maid
Hies to the field, the general toil to share.
Meanwhile the farmer quits his elbow chair,
His cool brick floor, his pitcher, and his ease,
And braves the sultry beams, and gladly sees
His gates thrown open, and his team abroad,
The ready group attendant on his word,
To turn the swarth, the quivering load to rear,
Or ply the busy rake, the land to clear.
Summer's light garb itself now cumbrous grown,
Each his thin doublet in the shade throws down;
Where oft the mastiff skulks with half shut eye
And rouses at the stranger passing by ;
While unrestrain'd the social converse flows,
And every breast love's powerful impulse knows
And rival wits with more than rustic grace
Confess the presence of a pretty face.
For, lo encircled there, the lovely maid,
In youth's own bloom and native smiles array'd;
Her hat awry, divested of her gown,
Her creaking stays of leather, stout and brown;
Invidious barrier; why art thou so high,
When the slight covering of her neck slips by,
There half revealing to the eager sight,
Her full, ripe bosom, exquisitely white?
In many a local tale of harmless mirth,
And many a joke of momentary birth,
She bears a part, and as she stops to speak,
Strokes back the ringlets from her glowing check
Now noon gone by, and four declining hours,
The weary limbs relax their boasted powers;
Thirst rages strong, the fainting spirits fail,
And ask the sovereign cordial, home-brew'd ale;
Beneath some sheltering heap of yellow corn
Rests the hoop'd keg, and friendly cooling horn,
That mocks alike the goblet's brittle frame,
Its costlier potions, and its nobler name.
To Mary first the brimming draught is given,
By toil made welcome as the dews of heaven,
And never lip that press'd its homely edge
Had kinder blessings, or a heartier pledge.
Of wholesome viands here a banquet smiles,
A common cheer for all ;-e'en humble Giles,
Who joys his trivial services to yiell
Amidst the fragrance of the open field;
Oft doom'd in suffocating heat to bear
The cobweb'd barn's impure and dusty air;
To ride in murky state the panting steed,
Destined aloft th' unloaded grain to tread,
Where, in his path as heaps on heaps are thrown,
He rears, and plunges the loose mountain down:
Laborious task! with what delight when done
Both horse and rider greet th' unclouded sun!
Yet by th' unclouded sun are hourly bred
The bold assailants that surround thine head,
Poor, patient Ball! and with insulting wing
Roar in thine ears, and dart the piercing sting.
In thy behalf the crest-waved boughs avail
More than thy short-clipt remnant of a tail,
A moving mockery, a useless name,
A living proof of cruelty and shame.
Shame to the man, whatever fame he bore,
Who took from thee what man can ne'er restore,
Thy weapon of defence, thy chiefest good,
When swarming flies contending suck thy blood.
Nor thine alone the suffering, thine the care,
The fretful ewe bemoans an equal share;
Tormented into sores, her head she hides,
Or angry sweeps them from her new-shorn sides.
Penn'd in the yard, e'en now at closing day,
Unruly cows with mark'd impatience stay,
And vainly striving to escape their foes,
The pail kick down; a piteous current flows.
Is't not enough that plagues like these molest?
Must still another foe annoy their rest?
He comes, the pest and terror of the yard,
His full-fledg'd progeny's imperious guard;
The gander-spiteful, insolent, and bold,
At the colt's footlock takes his daring hold:
There, serpent-like, escapes a dreadful blow,
And straight attacks a poor defenceless cow :
Each booby goose th' unworthy strife enjoys,
And hails his prowess with redoubled noise.
Then back he stalks, of self-importance full,
Seizes the shaggy foretop of the bull,
Till whirl'd aloft he falls: a timely check,
Enough to dislocate his worthless neck:
For lo! of old, he boasts an honour'd wound;
Behold that broken wing that trails the ground!
Thus fools and bravoes kindred pranks pursue,
As savage quite, and oft as fatal too.
Happy the man that foils an envious elf,
Using the darts of spleen to serve himself.
As when by turns the strolling swine engage
The utmost efforts of the bully's rage,
Whose nibbling warfare on the grunter's side
Is welcome pleasure to his bristly hide;
Gently he stoops, or stretch'd at ease along,
Enjoys the insults of the gabbling throng,
That march exulting round his fallen head,
As human victors trample on their dead. [thou!
Still twilight, welcome! Rest, how sweet art
Now eve o'erhangs the western cloud's thick brow:
The far stretch'd curtain of retiring light,
With fiery treasures fraught; that on the sight
Flash from its bulging sides, where darkness lours,
In fancy's eye, a chain of mouldering towers;
Or craggy coasts just rising into view,
Midst javelins dire, and darts of streaming blue.
Anon tired labourers bless their sheltering home,
When midnight, and the frightful tempest come.
The farmer wakes, and sees with silent dread
The angry shafts of Heaven gleam round his bed ;
The bursting cloud reiterated roars,
Shakes his straw roof, and jars his bolted doors:
The slow-wing'd storm along the troubled skies
Spreads its dark course; the wind begins to rise;
And full-leaf'd elms, his dwelling's shade by day,
With mimic thunder give its fury way:
Sounds in his chimney-top a doleful peal
Midst pouring rain, or gusts of rattling hail;
With tenfold danger low the tempest bends,
And quick and strong the sulphurous flame de-
scends:
The frighten'd mastiff from his kennel flies,
And cringes at the door with piteous cries.-
Where now's the trifler? where the child of
pride?
These are the moments when the heart is tried!
Nor lives the man, with conscience e'er so clear,
But feels a solemn, reverential fear;
Feels too a joy relieve his aching breast,
When the spent storm hath howl'd itself to rest.
Still, welcome beats the long-continued shower,
And sleep protracted, comes with double power;
Calm dreams of bliss bring on the morning sun,
For every barn is fill'd, and harvest done!
Now, ere sweet Summer bids its long adieu,
And winds blow keen where late the blossom grew,
The bustling day and jovial night must come,
The long accustomed feast of harvest-home.
No blood-stain'd victory, in story bright,
Can give the philosophic mind delight;
No triumph please, while rage and death destroy:
Reflection sickens at the monstrous joy.
And where the joy, if rightly understood,
Like cheerful praise for universal good?
The soul nor check nor doubtful anguish knows,
But pure and free the grateful current flows.
Behold the sound oak table's massy frame
Beside the kitchen floor! nor careful dame
And generous host invite their friends around,
For all that clear'd the crop, or till'd the ground
Are guests by right of custom :-old and young;
And many a neighbouring yeoman join the throng,
With artizans that lent their dexterous aid,
When o'er each field the flaming sunbeams play'd.
Yet plenty reigns, and from her boundless hoard
Though not one jelly trembles on the board,
Supplies the feast with all that sense can crave;
With all that made our great forefathers brave
Ere the cloy'd palate countless flavours tried,
And cooks had nature's judgment set aside.
With thanks to heaven, and tales of rustic lore
The mansion echoes when the banquet's o'er:
A wider circle spreads, and smiles abound,
As quick the frothing horn performs its round;
Care's mortal foe; that sprightly joys imparts
To cheer the frame and elevate their hearts.
Here, fresh and brown, the hazel's produce lies
In tempting heaps, and peals of laughter rise,
And crackling music, with the frequent song,
Unheeded bear the midnight hour along.
Here once a year distinction lowers its crest,
The master, servant, and the merry guest,
Are equal all; and round the happy ring
The reaper's eyes exulting glances fling,
And, warm'd with gratitude, he quits his place,
With sun-burnt hands and ale-enliven'd face,
Refills the jug, his honour'd host to tend,
To serve at once the master and the friend;
Proud thus to meet his smiles, to share his tale,
His nuts, his conversation, and his ale.
Such were the days,-of days long past I sing,
When pride gave place to mirth without a sting;
Ere tyrant customs strength sufficient bore
To violate the feelings of the poor:
To leave them distanced in the maddening race,
Where'er refinement shows its hated face:
Nor causeless hated ;-'tis the peasant's curse,
That hourly makes his wretched station worse;
Destroys life's intercourse; the social plan
That rank to rank cements, as man to man :
Wealth flows around him, fashion lordly reigns;
Yet poverty is his, and mental pains.
Methinks I hear the mourner thus impart The stifled murmurs of his wounded heart: "Whence comes this change, ungracious, irksome, cold?
Whence the new grandeur that mine eyes behold?
The widening distance which I daily see,
Has wealth done this ?-then wealth's a foe to me;
Foe to our rights; that leaves a powerful few
The paths of emulation to pursue :—
For emulation stoops to us no more:
The hope of humble industry is o'er:
The blameless hope, the cheering sweet presage
Of future comforts for declining age.
Can my sons share from this paternal hand
The profits with the labours of the land?
No; though indulgent Heaven its blessing deigns,
Where's the small farm to suit my scanty means?
Content, the poet sings, with us resides:
In lonely cots like mine, the damsel hides;
And will he then in raptured visions tell
That sweet content with want can ever dwell?
A barley loaf, 'tis true, my table crowns,
That, fast diminishing in lusty rounds,
Stops nature's cravings; yet her sighs will flow
From knowing this,-that once it was not so.
Our annual feast, when earth her plenty yields,
When crown'd with boughs the last load quits the
fields,
The aspect still of ancient joy puts on ;
The aspect only, with the substance gone:
The selfsame horn is still at our command,
But serves none now but the plebeian hand:
For home-brew'd ale, neglected and debased,
is quite discarded from the realms of taste.
Where unaffected freedom charm'd the soul,
The separate table and the costly bowl,
Cool as the blast that checks the budding Spring,
A mockery of gladness round them fling.
For oft the farmer, ere his heart approves,
Yields up the custom which he dearly loves:
Refinement rushes on him like a tide;
Bold innovations down its current ride,
That bear no peace beneath their showy dress,
Nor add one tittle to his happiness.
His guests selected; rank's punctilios known;
What trouble waits upon a casual frown;
Restraint's foul manacles his pleasures maim;
Selected guests selected phrases claim;
Nor reigns that joy, when hand in hand they join,
That good old master felt in shaking mine.
Heaven bless his memory! bless his honour'd name! (The poor will speak his lasting, worthy fame :) To souls fair-purposed strength and guidance give;
In pity to us still let goodness live:
Let labour have its due! my cot shall be
From chilling want and guilty murmurs free:
Let labour have its due; then peace is mine,
And never, never shall my heart repine."
Acorns. Hogs in the wood. Wheat-sowing. The church. Village girls. The mad girl. The bird. boy's hut. Disappointment; Reflections, &c. Eustonhall. Fox-hunting. Old Trouncer. Long nights. A welcome to Winter.
AGAIN, the year's decline, midst storms and floods,
The thundering chase, the yellow fading woods,
Invite my song; that fain would boldly tell
Of upland coverts and the echoing dell,
By turns resounding loud, at eve and morn,
The swineherd's halloo, or the huntsman's horn.
No more the fields with scatter'd grain supply
The restless, wandering tenants of the sty;
From oak to oak they run with eager haste,
And wrangling share the first delicious taste
Of fallen acorns; yet but thinly found
Till the strong gale has shook them to the ground.
It comes; and roaring woods obedient wave:
Their home well. pleased the joint adventurers
leave:
The trudging sow leads forth her numerous young,
Playful, and white, and clean, the briars among.
Till briers and thorns increasing, fence them round,
Where last year's mouldering leaves bestrew the
ground,
And o'er their heads, loud lash'd by furious squalls,
Bright from their cups the rattling treasure falls;
Hot, thirsty food; whence doubly sweet and cool
The welcome margin of some rush-grown pool,
The wild duck's lonely haunt, whose jealous eye
Guards every point; who sits, prepared to fly,
On the calm bosom of her little lake,
Too closely screen'd for ruffian winds to shake;
And as the bold intruders press around,
At once she starts, and rises with a bound:
With bristles raised the sudden noise they hear,
And ludicrously wild, and wing'd with fear,
The herd decamp with more than swinish speed,
And snorting dash through sedge, and rush, and
reed:
Through tangling thickets headlong on they go,
Then stop and listen for their fancied foe;
The hindmost still the growing panic spreads,
Repeated fright the first alarm succeeds,
Till folly's wages, wounds and thorns, they reap;
Yet glorying in their fortunate escape,
Their groundless terrors by degrees soon cease,
And night's dark reign restores their wonted peace.
For now the gale subsides, and from each bough
The roosting pheasant's short but frequent crow
Invites to rest; and huddling side by side,
The herd in closest ambush seek to hide;
Seck some warm slope with shagged moss o'er-When, conscious of their charms, e'en age looks sly
Dried leaves their copious covering and their bed.
In vain may Giles, through gathering glooms that
fall,
And solemn silence, urge his piercing call.
Whole days and nights they tarry midst their store,
Nor quit the woods till oaks can yield no more.
Beyond bleak Winter's rage, beyond the Spring,
That rolling earth's unvarying course will bring,
Who tills the ground looks on with mental eye,
And sees next Summer's sheaves and cloudless sky,
And even now, whilst nature's beauty dies,
Deposits seed, and bids new harvest rise;
Seed well prepared, and warm'd with glowing lime,
'Gainst earth-bred grubs, and cold, and lapse of time:
For searching frosts and various ills invade,
Whilst wintry months depress the springing blade.
The plough moves heavily, and strong the soil,
And clogging harrows with augmented toil
Dive deep and clinging, mixes with the mould
A fattening treasure from the nightly fold,
And all the cowyard's highly valued store,
That late bestrew'd the blacken'd surface o'er.
No idling hours are here, when fancy trims
Her dancing taper over outstretch'd limbs,
And in her thousand thousand colours dress'd,
Plays round the grassy couch of noontide rest:
Here Giles for hours of indolence atones
With strong exertion, and with weary bones,
And knows no leisure, till the distant chime
Of Sabbath bell he hears at sermon time,
That down the brook sound sweetly in the gale,
Or strike the rising hill, or skim the dale.
Nor his alone the sweets of ease to taste:
Kind rest extends to all;-save one poor beast,
That true to time and pace, is doom'd to plod,
To bring the pastor to the House of God:
Mean structure; where no bones of heroes lie!
The rude inelegance of poverty
Reigns here alone; else why that roof of straw?
Those narrow windows with the frequent flaw?
O'er whose low cells the dock and mallow spread,
And rampant nettles lift the spiry head,
Whilst from the hollows of the tower on high
The gray-capp'd daws in saucy legions fly.
Round these lone walls assembling neighbours
meet,
And tread departed friends beneath their feet;
And new-briar'd graves, that prompt the secret sigh,
Show each the spot where he himself must lie.
Midst timely greetings village news goes round,
Of crops late shorn, or crops that deck the ground;
Experienced ploughmen in the circle join ;
While sturdy boys, in feats of strength to shine,
With pride elate, their young associates brave
To jump from hollow-sounding grave to grave;
Then close consulting, each his talent lends
To plan fresh sports when tedious service ends.
Hither at times, with cheerfulness of soul,
Sweet village maids from neighbouring hamlets
stroll,
And rapture beams from youth's observant eye.
The pride of such a party, nature's pride,
Was lovely Ann, who innocently tried,
With hat of airy shape and ribands gay,
Love to inspire, and stand in Hymen's way:
But, ere her twentieth summer could expand,
Or youth was render'd happy with her hand,
Her mind's serenity, her peace was gone,
Her eye grew languid, and she wept alone:
Yet causeless seem'd her grief; for quick restrain'd,
Mirth follow 'd loud; or indignation reign'd;
Whims wild and simple led her from her home,
The heath, the common, or the fields to roam:
Terror and joy alternate ruled her hours;
Now blithe she sung, and gather'd useless flowers;
Now pluck'd a tender twig from every bough,
To whip the hovering demons from her brow.
I'll fated maid! thy guiding spark is fled,
And lasting wretchedness awaits thy bed-
Thy bed of straw! for mark, where even now
O'er their lost child afflicted parents bow;
Their wo she knows not, but perversely coy,
Inverted customs yield her sullen joy;
Her midnight meals in secrecy she takes,
Low muttering to the moon, that rising breaks
Through night's dark gloom: O how much more
Her night, that knows of no returning morn!-
Slow from the threshold, once her infant seat,
O'er the cold earth she crawls to her retreat;
Quitting the cot's warm walls, unhoused to lie,
Or share the swine's impure and narrow sty;
The damp night air her shivering limbs assails:
In dreams she moans, and fancied wrongs bewails.
When morning wakes, none earlier roused than
she,
When pendant drops fall glittering from the tree;
But naught her rayless melancholy cheers,
Or soothes her breast, or stops her streaming tears
Her matted locks unornamented flow;
Clasping her knees, and waving to and fro;-
Her head bow'd down, her faded cheek to hide ;—
A piteous mourner by the pathway side.
Some tufted molehill through the livelong day
She calls her throne; there weeps her life away!
And oft the gayly-passing stranger stays
His well-timed step, and takes a silent gaze,
Till sympathetic drops unbidden start,
And pangs quick springing muster round his heart
And soft ne treads with other gazers round,
And fain would catch her sorrow's plaintive sound:
One word alone is all that strikes the ear,
One short, pathetic, simple word,-"Oh dear!"
A thousand times repeated to the wind,
That wafts the sigh, but leaves the pang behind!
For ever of the proffer'd parley shy,
She hears th' unwelcome foot advancing nigh;
Nor quite unconscious of her wretched plight,
Gives one sad look, and hurries out of sight.-
Fair promised sunbeams of terrestrial bliss,
Health's gallant hopes,-and are ye sunk to this?
That like the light-heel'd does o'er lawns that rove, For in life's road, though thorns abundant grow,
Look shyly curious; ripening into love;
For love's their errand: hence the tints that glow
On either cheek, a heighten'd lustre know:
There still are joys poor Ann can never know;
Joys which the gay companions of her prime
Sip, as they drift along the stream of time;
At eve to hear beside their tranquil home
The lifted latch, that speaks the lover come :
That love matured, next playful on the knee
To press the velvet lip of infancy;
To stay the tottering step, the features trace ;-
Inestimable sweets of social peace!
O thou, who bidst the vernal juices rise!
Thou, on whose blasts autumnal foliage flies!
Let peace ne'er leave me, nor my heart grow cold,
Whilst life and sanity are mine to hold.
Shorn of their flowers that shed th' untreasured
seed,
The withering pasture, and the fading mead,
Less tempting grown, diminish more and more,
The dairy's pride; sweet Summer's flowing store
New cares succeed, and gentle duties press,
Where the fireside, a school of tenderness,
Revives the languid chirp, and warms the blood
Of cold-nipt weaklings of the latter brood,
That from the shell just bursting into day,
Through yard or pond pursue their venturous
Far weightier cares and wider scenes expand;
What devastation marks the new-sown land!
"From hungry woodland foes go, Giles, and guard
The rising wheat; ensure its great reward:
A future sustenance, a Summer's pride,
Demand thy vigilance; then be it tried:
Exert thy voice, and wield thy shotless gun;
Go, tarry there from morn till setting sun."
Keen blows the blast, or ceaseless rain descends;
The half-stripp'd hedge a sorry shelter lends.
O for a hovel, e'er so small or low,
Whose roof, repelling winds or early snow,
Might bring home's comfort fresh before his eyes!
No sooner thought, than see the structure rise,
In some sequester'd nook, embank'd around,
Sods for its walls, and straw in burdens bound:
Dried fuel hoarded is his richest store,
And circling smoke obscures his little door;
Whence creeping forth, to duty's call he yields,
And strolls the Crusoe of the lonely fields.
On whitethorns towering, and the leafless rose,
A frost-nipt feast in bright vermilion glows:
Where clustering sloes in glossy order rise,
He crops the loaded branch; a cumbrous prize;
And o'er the flame the sputtering fruit he rests,
Placing green sods to seat his coming guests;
His guests by promise; playmates young and gay :-
But, ah fresh pastimes lure their steps away!
He sweeps his hearth, and homeward looks in vain,
Till feeling disappointment's cruel pain,
His fairy revels are exchanged for rage,
His banquet marr'd, grown dull his hermitage.
The field becomes his prison, till on high
Benighted birds to shades and coverts fly.
Midst air, health, daylight, can he prisoner be?
If fields are prisons, where is liberty?
Though ineffectual pity thine may be,
No wealth, no power to set the captive free
Though only to thy ravish'd sight is given
The radiant path that Howard trod to heaven;
Thy slights can make the wretched more forlorn,
And deeper drive affliction's barbed thorn.
Say not," I'll come and cheer thy gloomy cell
With news of dearest friends; how good, how
well;
I'll be a joyful herald to thine heart:"
Then fail, and play the worthless trifler's part,
To sip flat pleasures from thy glass's brim,
And waste the precious hour that's due to him
In mercy spare the base, unmanly blow:
Where can he turn, to whom complain of you?
Back to past joys in vain his thoughts may stray,
Trace and retrace the beaten, worn-out way,
The rankling injury will pierce his breast,
And curses on thee break his midnight rest.
Bereft of song, and ever-cheering green,
The soft endearments of the Summer scene,
New harmony pervades the solemn wood,
Dear to the soul, and healthful to the blood:
For bold exertion follows on the sound
Of distant sportsmen, and the chiding hound;
First heard from kennel bursting, mad with joy,
Where smiling Euston boasts her good Fitzroy,
Lord of pure alms, and gifts that wide extend;
The farmer's patron and the poor man's friend.
Whose mansion glitters with the eastern ray,
Whose elevated temple points the way,
O'er slopes and lawns, the park's extensive pride,
To where the victims of the chase reside,
Ingulf'd in earth, in conscious safety warm,
Till lo! a plot portends their coming harm.
In earliest hours of dark and hooded morn,
Ere yet one rosy cloud bespeaks the dawn,
Whilst far abroad the fox pursues his prey,
He's doom'd to risk the perils of the day,
From his strong hold block'd out; perhaps to bleed
Or owe his life to fortune or to speed.
For now the pack, impatient running on,
Range through the darkest coverts one by one;
Trace every spot; whilst down each noble glade
That guides the eye beneath a changeful shade,
The loitering sportsman feels th' instinctive flame
And checks his steed to mark the springing game.
Midst intersecting cuts and winding ways
The huntsman cheers his dogs, and anxious strays
Where every narrow riding, even shorn,
Gives back the echo of his mellow horn ;
Till fresh and lightsome, every power untried,
The starting fugitive leaps by his side,
His lifted finger to his ear he plies,
And the view halloo bids a chorus rise
Of dogs quick-mouth'd, and shouts that mingie loud,
As bursting thunder rolls from cloud to cloud
Here still she dwells, and here her votaries stroll; With ears erect, and chest of vigorous mould,
But disappointed hope untunes the soul:
Restraints unfelt whilst hours of rapture flow,
When troubles press to chains and barriers grow.
Look then from trivial up to greater woes;
From the poor bird-boy with his roasted sloes,
To where the dungeon'd mourner heaves the sigh;
Where not one cheering sunbeam meets his eye.
O'er ditch, o'er fence, unconquerably bold,
The shining courser lengthens every bound,
And his strong footlocks suck the moisten'd ground,
As from the confines of the wood they pour,
And joyous villages partake the roar.
O'er heath far stretch'd, or down, or valley low,
The stiff-limb'd peasant glorying in the show
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