Let your obsequious ranger search around,
Where yellow stubble withers on the ground:
Nor will the roving spy direct in vain,
But numerous coveys gratify thy pain.
When the meridian sun contracts the shade,
And frisking heifers seek the cooling glade;
Or when the country floats with sudden rains,
Or driving mists deface the moistened plains;
In vain his toils the unskilful fowler tries,
While in thick woods the feeding partridge lies.
Nor must the sporting verse the gun forbear,
But what's the fowler's be the muse's care.
See how the well-taught pointer leads the way
The scent grows warm; he stops; he springs the
prey;
The fluttering coveys from the stubble rise,
And on swift wing divide the sounding skies;
The scattering lead pursues the certain sight,
And death in thunder overtakes their flight.
Cool breathes the morning air, and winter's hand
Spreads wide her hoary mantle o'er the land;
Now to the copse thy lesser spaniel take,
Teach him to range the ditch, and force the brake;
Not closest coverts can protect the game:
Hark! the dog opens; take thy certain aim.
The woodcock flutters; how he wavering flies!
The wood resounds: he wheels, he drops, he dies
The towering hawk let future poets sing,
Who terror bears upon his soaring wing:
Let them on high the frighted hern survey,
And lofty numbers paint their airy fray.
Nor shall the mountain lark the muse detain, That greets the morning with his early strain ; When 'midst his song, the twinkling glass betrays,
While from each angle flash the glancing rays, And in the sun the transient colors blaze, Pride lures the little warbler from the skies: The light-enamored bird deluded dies.
But still the chase, a pleasing task remains;
The hound must open in these rural strains.
Soon as Aurora drives away the night,
And edges eastern clouds with rosy light,
The healthy huntsman, with the cheerful horn,
Summons the dogs, and greets the dappled morn;
The jocund thunder wakes the enlivened hounds,
They rouse from sleep, and answer sounds for
sounds.
Wide through the furzy field their rout they take;
Their bleeding bosoms force the thorny brake:
The flying game their smoking nostrils trace,
No bounding hedge obstructs their eager pace;
The distant mountains echo from afar,
And hanging woods resound the flying war:
The tuneful noise the sprightly courser hears,
Paws the green turf, and pricks his trembling
The slackened rein now gives him all his speed,
Back flies the rapid ground beneath the steed; Hills, dales, and forests, far behind remain, While the warm scent draws on the deep-mouthed train.
Where shall the trembling hare a shelter find?
Hark! death advances in each gust of wind!
Now stratagoms and doubling wiles she tries;
Now circling turns, and now at large she flies;
Till, spent at last, she pants and heaves for breath,
Then lays her down, and waits devouring death.
But stay, adventurous muse! hast thou the
force
To wind the twisted horn, to guide the horse?
To keep thy scat unmoved, hast thou the skill,
O'er the high gate, and down the headlong hill?
Canst thou the stag's laborious chase direct,
Or the strong fox through all his arts detect?
The theme demands a more experienced lay:
Ye mighty hunters! spare this weak essay.
O happy plains, remote from war's alarms,
And all the ravages of hostile arms!
And happy shepherds, who, secure from fear,
On open downs preserve your fleecy care!
Whose spacious barns groan with increasing store,
And whirling flails disjoint the cracking floor!
No barbarous soldier, bent on cruel spoil,
Spreads desolation o'er your fertile soil;
No trampling steed lays waste the ripened grain,
Nor crackling fires devour the promised gain:
No flaming beacons cast their blaze afar,
The dreadful signal of invasive war:
No trumpet's clangor wounds the mother's ear,
And calls the lover from his swooning fair.
What happiness the rural maid attends,
In cheerful labor while each day she spends!
She gratefully receives what heaven has sent,
And, rich in poverty, enjoys content.
(Such happiness, and such unblemished fame,
Ne'er glad the bosom of the courtly dame :)
She never feels the spleen's imagined pains,
Nor melancholy stagnates in her veins;
She never loses life in thoughtless ease,
Nor on the velvet couch invites disease;
Her home-spun dress in simple neatness lies,
And for no glaring equipage she sighs:
Her reputation, which is all her boast,
In a malicious visit ne'er was lost;
No midnight masquerade her beauty wears,
And health, not paint, the fading bloom repairs
If love's soft passion in her bosom reign,
An equal passion warms her happy swain:
No home-bred jars her quiet state control,
Nor watchful jealousy torments her soul;
With secret joy she sees her little race
Hang on her breast, and her small cottage grace;
The fleecy ball their busy fingers cull,
Or from the spindle draw the lengthening wool: Thus flow her hours with constant peace of mind,
Till age the latest thread of life unwind.
Ye happy fields, unknown to noise and strife, The kind rewarders of industrious life; Ye shady woods, where once I used to rove, Alike indulgent to the muse and love;
Ye murmuring streams that in meanders roll, The sweet composers of the pensive soul; Farewell! the city calls me from your bowers: Farewell, amusing thoughts, and peaceful hours!
A BALLAD.
"TWAS when the seas were roaring
With hollow blasts of wind,
A damsel lay deploring,
All on a rock reclined.
Wide o'er the foaming billows,
She cast a wistful look;
Her head was crowned with willows,
That trembled o'er the brook.
Twelve months are gone and over,
And nine long tedious days;
Why didst thou, venturous lover,
Why didst thou trust the seas?
Cease, cease, thou cruel ocean,
And let my lover rest:
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