The Sportsman.

Makes your glass sparkle, and your sense rejoice;

Nor cruelly demand what the deep rains,
And all-involving winds have swept away.

365

Here the rude clamour of the sportman's joy, 360 The gun fast-thundering, and the winded horn, Would tempt the Muse to sing the rural game: How, in his mid-career, the spaniel struck, Stiff, by the tainted gale, with open nose, Out-stretch'd, and finely sensible, draws full, Fearful, and cautious, on the latent prey; As in the sun the circling covey bask Their varied plumes, and watchful every way, Through the rough stubble turn the secret eye. Caught in the meshy snare, in vain they beat Their idle wings, entangled more and more: Nor on the surges of the boundless air, Though borne triumphant, are they safe; the gun Glanc'd just, and sudden, from the fowler's eye, O'ertakes their sounding pinions; and again, Immediate, brings them from the towering wing, Dead to the ground; or drives them wide-dispers'd, Wounded, and wheeling various, down the wind.

These are not subjects for the peaceful muse,

370

375

Cruelty of Hunting.

Nor will she stain with such her spotless song;

380

Then most delighted, when she social sees
The whole mix'd animal-creation round
Alive, and happy. "T is not joy to her,
This falsely-cheerful barbarous game of death;
This rage of pleasure, which the restless youth
Awakes, impatient, with the gleaming morn;
When beasts of prey retire, that all night long,
Urg'd by necessity, had rang'd the dark;
As if their conscious ravage shun'd the light,
Asham'd. Not so the steady tyrant man,
Who with the thoughtless insolence of power
Inflam'd, beyond the most infuriate wrath

Of the worst monster that e'er roam'd the waste,

For sport alone pursues the cruel chase,

Amid the beamings of the gentle days.

Upbraid, ye ravening tribes, our wanton rage,

For hunger kindles you, and lawless want;
But lavish fed, in Nature's bounty roll'd,
To joy at anguish, and delight in blood,

Is what your horrid bosoms never knew.

Poor is the triumph o'er the timid hare,
Scar'd from the corn, and now to some lone seat

385

390

395

400

Hunting the Hare.

Retir'd: the rushy fen; the ragged furze,

Stretch'd o'er the stony heath; the stubble chapt;
The thistly lawn; the thick-entangled broom;
Of the same friendly hue, the wither'd fern;
The fallow ground laid open to the sun,
Concoctive; and the nodding sandy bank,
Hung o'er the mazes of the mountain brook.
Vain is her best precaution; though she sits
Conceal'd, with folded ears; unsleeping eyes,
By Nature rais'd to take th' horizon in;
And head couch'd close betwixt her hairy feet,
In act to spring away.
The scented dew
Betrays her early labyrinth; and deep

In scatter'd sullen openings, far behind,

With every breeze she hears the coming storm.
But nearer, and more frequent, as it loads
The sighing gale, she springs amaz'd; and all

The

savage soul of game is up at once:

The pack full-opening, various; the shrill horn
Resounded from the hills; the neighing steed,
Wild for the chase; and the loud hunter's shout;
O'er a weak, harmless, flying creature, all
Mix'd in mad tumult, and discordant joy.

405

410

415

420

425

Hunting the Stag.

430

The stag too, singled from the herd, where long He rang'd the branching monarch of the shades, Before the tempest drives. At first, in speed, He, sprightly, puts his faith; and rous'd by fear, Gives all his swift aërial soul to flight; Against the breeze he darts, that way the more To leave the lessening murderous cry behind: Deception short! though fleeter than the winds Blown o'er the keen-air'd mountain by the north, He bursts the thickets, glances through the glades, 435 And plunges deep into the wildest wood; If slow, yet sure, adhesive to the track Hot-steaming, up behind him come again Th' inhuman rout, and from the shady depth Expel him, circling through his every shift. He sweeps the forest oft; and sobbing sees The glades, mild opening to the golden day; Where, in kind contest, with his butting friends He wont to struggle, or his loves enjoy. Oft in the full-descending flood he tries

To lose the scent, and lave his burning sides:

Oft seeks the herd; the watchful herd, alarm'd,
With selfish care avoid a brother's woe.

440

445

1

Hunting the Stag.

What shall he do? His once so vivid nerves,
So full of buoyant spirit, now no more

Inspire the course; but fainting breathless toil,
Sick, seizes on his heart: he stands at bay;

And puts his last weak refuge in despair.

The big round tears run down his dappled face;

450

He groans in anguish; while the growling pack, 455

Blood happy, hang at his fair-jutting chest,

And mark his beauteous checker'd sides with gore.

Of this enough. But if the sylvan youth,
Whose fervent blood boils into violence,

Must have the chase; behold, despising flight,
The rous'd-up lion, resolute, and slow,
Advancing full on the protended spear,
And coward-band, that circling wheel aloof.
Slunk from the cavern, and the troubled wood,
See the grim wolf; on him his shaggy foe
Vindictive fix, and let the ruffian die:

460

465

Or, growling horrid, as the brindled boar

Grins fell destruction, to the monster's heart

Let the dart lighten from the nervous arm.

These BRITAIN knows not; give, ye BRITONS, then Your sportive fury, pitiless, to pour