Perchance to be scorned in each :-I have but gored This ill-starred man in vain!-hush, methought he stirred; I'll give him another thrust (stabs the body); there—lie thou quiet. What a frown he hath upon his face! May the gods ne'er mention it In their thunders, nor set the red stain of his blood For a sign of wrath in the sky!-0 thou poor wretch ! The sport of malicious destinies ! Why was I heiress of these mortal gifts Perishing all whether I love or hate? Nay, come out of sight [To the body. With thy dismal puckering look-'twill fright the world Out of its happiness. [She drags the body aside, and covers it with drapery. Would I could throw A thicker curtain on thee-but I see thee All through and through, as though I had I am here all human, and have that fierce thing, [Exit. ADVERTISEMENT. Striding in the Steps of Strutt-the historian of the old English Sports-the author of the following pages has endeavored to record a yearly revel, already fast hastening to decay. The Easter Chase will soon be numbered with the pastimes of past times: its dogs will have had their day, and its Deer will be Fallow. A few more seasons, and this City Common Hunt will become uncommon. In proof of this melancholy decadence, the ensuing epistle is inserted. It was penned by an underling at the Wells, a person more accustomed to riding than writing. 66 'SIB, "About the Hunt. In anser to your Innqueries, their as been a great falling off laterally, so much so this year that there was nobody allmost. We did a mear nothing provisionally, hardly a Bottle extra, wich is a proof in Pint. In short our Hunt may be sad to be in the last Stag of a decline. "I am, SIB, "With respects from "Your humble Servant, : THE EPPING HUNT. "On Monday they began to hunt."-CHEVY CHASE. JOHN HUGGINS was as bold a man A warehouse good he had, that stood There people bought Dutch cheeses round And single Glos'ter flat; And English butter in a lump, And Irish-in a pat. Six days a week beheld him stand, The seventh, in a sluice-house box On Sundays, for eel-piety, Ab, blest if he had never gone One Easter-tide, some evil guide Epping, for butter justly famed, But famous more, as annals tell, With Monday's sun John Huggins rose, For all the live-long day before, And all the night in bed, Like Beckford, he had nourished "Thoughts On Hunting" in his head. Of horn and morn, and hark and bark, And echo's answering sounds, All poets' wit hath every writ Alas! there was no warning voice Thou art a fool in leaving Cheap No thought he had of twisted spine, |