Inveighs against the lingering post,
And answering house-wife sore complains
Of carriers' snow-impeded wains:
When such the country cheer, I come,
Well pleased, to seek our city home;
For converse, and for books, to change
The Forest's melancholy range,
And welcome, with renewed delight
The busy day, and social night.

Marmion: a Tale of Flodden Field. WALTER SCOTT, 1808.

From The Excursion'

'A blessed lot is yours!'

He said, and with that exclamation breathed
A tender sigh ;—but, suddenly the door
Opening, with eager haste two lusty Boys
Appeared-confusion checking their delight.
Not Brothers they in feature or attire,
But fond Companions, so I guessed, in field,
And by the river-side--from which they come,
A pair of Anglers, laden with their spoil.
One bears a willow-pannier on his back,
The Boy of plainer garb, and more abashed
In countenance,-more distant and retired.
Twin might the Other be to that fair Girl
Who bounded tow'rds us from the garden mount.
Triumphant entry this to him !—for see,

Between his hands he holds a smooth blue stone,
On whose capacious surface is outspread

Large store of gleaming crimson-spotted trouts ;
Ranged side by side, in regular ascent,
One after one, still lessening by degree
Up to the dwarf that tops the pinnacle.

Upon the Board he lays the sky-blue stone

With its rich spoil;-their number he proclaims;

Tells from what pool the noblest had been dragged ; And where the very monarch of the brook,

After long struggle, had escaped at last

Stealing alternately at them and us

(As doth his Comrade too) a look of pride.
And, verily, the silent Creatures made
A splendid sight together thus exposed;
Dead- but not sullied or deformed by Death,
That seemed to pity what he could not spare.

But oh the animation in the mien
Of those two Boys! Yea in the very words
With which the young Narrator was inspired,
When, as our questions led, he told at large
Of that day's prowess! Him might I compare,
His look, tones, gestures, eager eloquence,
To a bold Brook which splits for better speed,
And, at the self-same moment, works its way
Through many channels, ever and anon
Parted and reunited his Compeer

To the still Lake, whose stillness is to the eye
As beautiful, as grateful to the mind.

Skating

W. WORDSWORTH, 1814.

And in the frosty season, when the sun
Was set, and visible for many a mile

The cottage windows blazed through twilight gloom,
I heeded not their summons: happy time

It was indeed for all of us- for me

It was a time of rapture! Clear and loud

The village clock tolled six,-I wheeled about,
Proud and exulting like an untired horse

That cares not for his home. All shod with steel,
We hissed along the polished ice in games
Confederate, imitative of the chase

And woodland pleasures,- the resounding horn,
The pack loud chiming, and the hunted hare.
So through the darkness and the cold we flew,
And not a voice was idle; with the din

Smitten, the precipices rang aloud ;
The leafless trees and every icy crag
Tinkled like iron; while far distant hills

Into the tumult sent an alien sound

Of melancholy not unnoticed, while the stars
Eastward were sparkling clear, and in the west
The orange sky of evening died away.

Not seldom from the uproar I retired

Into a silent bay, or sportively

Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng,
To cut across the reflex of a star

That fled, and, flying still before me, gleamed

Upon the glassy plain; and oftentimes,

When we had given our bodies to the wind,
And all the shadowy banks on either side

Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning still
The rapid line of motion, then at once

Have I, reclining back upon my heels,
Stopped short; yet still the solitary cliffs
Wheeled by me-even as if the earth had rolled
With visible motion her diurnal round!

How many a time have I
Cloven with arm still lustier, breast more daring,
The wave all roughen'd; with a swimmer's stroke
Flinging the billows back from my drench'd hair,
And laughing from my lip the audacious brine,
Which kiss'd it like a wine-cup, rising o'er
The waves as they arose, and prouder still
The loftier they uplifted me ; and oft,
In wantonness of spirit, plunging down
Into their green and glassy gulfs, and making
My way to shells and sea-weed, all unseen
By those above, till they wax'd fearful; then
Returning with my grasp full of such tokens
As show'd that I had search'd the deep exulting,
With a far-dashing stroke, and drawing deep
The long-suspended breath, again I spurn'd
The foam which broke around me, and pursued
My track like a sea-bird.—I was a boy then.

The Two Foscari: a Tragedy. Lord BYRON, 1821.

From Don Juan'

CANTO XIII

The mellow Autumn came, and with it came
The promised party, to enjoy its sweets.
The corn is cut, the manor full of game;
The pointer ranges, and the sportsman beats

In russet jacket :-lynx-like is his aim,

Full grows his bag, and wonderful his feats. Ah nutbrown Partridges! Ah brilliant Pheasants! And ah, ye Poachers! 'Tis no sport for peasants.

The gentlemen got up betimes to shoot,

Or hunt the young, because they liked the sportThe first thing boys like, after play and fruit :

The middle-aged, to make the day more short; For ennui is a growth of English root,

Though nameless in our language - we retort

The fact for words, and let the French translate
That awful yawn which sleep can not abate.

Then there were billiards; cards too, but no dice ;-
Save in the Clubs no man of honour plays ;-
Boats when 'twas water, skaiting when 'twas ice,
And the hard frost destroy'd the scenting days:
And angling too, that solitary vice,

Whatever Isaac Walton sings or says:

The quaint, old, cruel coxcomb, in his gullet
Should have a hook, and a small trout to pull it.

Don Juan. Lord BY RON, 1823.

From The Deformed Transformed'

PART III. SCENE I.
Chorus

But the hound bayeth loudly,
The Boar's in the wood,
And the Falcon longs proudly
To spring from her hood:
On the wrist of the Noble
She sits like a crest,

And the air is in trouble

With birds from their nest.

CÆSAR

Oh! Shadow of glory!

Dim image of war!

But the chace hath no story,
Her hero no star,
Since Nimrod, the Founder
Of empire and chace,
Who made the woods wonder
And quake for their race.
When the Lion was young,
In the pride of his might,
Then 'twas sport for the strong
To embrace him in fight;

To go forth, with a pine

For a spear, 'gainst the Mammoth,

Or strike through the ravine

At the foaming Behemoth ;

While man was in stature

As towers in our time,
The first born of nature,
And, like her, sublime!

The Deformed Transformed. Lord BYRON, 1824.

From Edipus Tyrannus'

ACT II. SCENE II.

MINOTAUR

My name's JOHN BULL; I am a famous hunter,
And can leap any gate in all Boeotia,

Even the palings of the royal park,

Or double ditch about the new enclosures;
And if your Majesty will deign to mount me,
At least till you have hunted down your game,
I will not throw you.

IONA TAURINA

(During this speech she has been putting on boots and spurs, and a hunting cap, buckishly cocked on one side, and tucking up her hair, she leaps nimbly on his back.)

Hoa hoa tallyho! tallyho! ho! ho!

Come, let us hunt these ugly badgers down,
These stinking foxes, these devouring otters,

These hares, these wolves, these anything but men.
Hey, for a whipper-in! my loyal pigs,

Now let your noses be as keen as beagles,

Your steps as swift as greyhounds, and your cries
More dulcet and symphonious than the bells

Of village-towers, on sunshine holiday;

Wake all the dewy woods with jangling music.
Give them no law (are they not beasts of blood?)
But such as they gave you. Tallyho! ho!

Through forest, furze, and bog, and den, and desart,
Pursue the ugly beasts! tallyho! ho!

Full Chorus of IONA and the SWINE

Edipus Tyrannus; or Swellfoot the Tyrant: a Tragedy.

P. B. SHELLEY, 1820.