"Rememberest thou my greyhounds true?"-SCOTT.
"Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures
"Whilst the landscape round it measures."-MILTON.
To James Webb, Esq. and William Hayward, Esq. this Poem, written chiefly for their amusement, is inscribed by the Author.
is pleasant to dance in lordly hall
When the merry harp is ringing;
'Tis sweet in the bow'r at ev'ning's fall
To list to the night-bird's singing;
'Tis lovely to view th' autumnal hue,
As it gilds the woodland mountain;
Or when summer glows, to pluck the rose,
And quaff from the dew's pure fountain.
But fatigue in pleasure's guise is clad;
And the song so sweet makes the light heart sad;
And autumn tells of joys that fly;
And summer's charms in languor die :
If ye would have all hope can bring,
Take the first morn of early spring!
If ye would warm your life-blood chill,
Go course on Watlington's fair hill!
The mountain gale the vapour flings
Aloft upon his giant wings:
And now the sun, in high career,
Wakens a thousand dew-drops clear,
That in their downy moss-couch sleep,
Or from the trembling grass-top weep.
O lovelier than the brightest gem
That shines in princely diadem,
How transient is thy sway;
Sportsmen and steeds, and hounds and hare,
Hunters and hunted from thy lair
Shall drive thee, Diamond of the air,
And sweep thy charms away.
And yet, in sooth, upon the hill
Thy glitt'ring place they better fill:
Upon the shelving mossy side,
And on the furze-clad steep,
Th' impatient horsemen gaily ride,
The gallant dogs reluctant bide,
And ladies fair, though storms betide,
Their anxious station keep.
Greyhounds were there of noble name;
Coursers who equal praise may claim;
And many a bright and gentle dame.
O could my rustic string
Their beauty and their feats proclaim,
And give and steal the minstrel's fame,
Of all, of each, my harp should ring!
But light as he the strain should spring
That sings the greyhound rare;
And soft as Beauty's plumy wing
The lay that paints the Fair.
Whilst harsh and rude the notes I fling,
Coursing nor Beauty dare I sing,
The greyhound nor the hare.
Yet, gentle maids, ye well may spy
Your triumphs in your lovers' eye:
And ye, kind sportsmen, well may claim
For gallant dogs scarce-rivall'd fame.
And durst I sing, in vent'rous guise,
Of ricks and turns, and falls and byes,
And all the courser's mysteries,
Then should the swan-neck'd Nancy show
As spotless as her fur of snow;
Then should the Sharks successive reign,
And all their master's fame sustain ;
Nor Windsor shame his breeding high;
Nor thou thy name, Northumbrian Fly;
Nor thou, Prince Hal, thy namesake old,
"The nimble-footed mad-cap" bold;
Nor thou the meed thy mother won,
My golden-crested Marmion*.
* Celebrated greyhounds belonging to Messrs. Newell, Hayward, Webb, Hunt, and Mitford. Marmion is the son of Dr. Mitford's Maria, who won the Ilsley cup for 1808. Mr. Hayward's famous Shark was the sire of Lord Rivers's Remark, and the grandsire of Maria, and of Rose-bud, who won the cup, last season, at Swaffham.
Leave we them all: to stand awhile
Upon the topmost brow,
And mark how many a length'ning mile
The landscape spreads below.
Here let us stand! The breezes chill
A healthful freshness breathe,
The blood with stirring quickness fill,
And Fancy's wildest garlands wreathe.
How pure,
how transient is the storm!
See in yon furze poor puss's form,
A vacant cradle seems,
Rock'd by the loud wind to and fro;
Whilst the coy primrose blooms below,
Nurs'd by the southern beams:
And over-head in richer gold
The gorse's hardy flow'rs unfold,
Framing wild wreaths most sweet, most fair,
To hang around her mountain lair.
Methinks I too should love to dwell
Within this lone and cloud-capp'd cell :
With all around of vast and rude;
A wild romantic solitude!
With all below to charm the eye;
With nought above me, but the sky.
Here would I watch each sailing cloud
Scudding along in grandeur proud;
And mark the varying shadows cast
On down or fallow as it past;
Or view the sudden catching light
Now part the shades and now unite;
Till noon's refulgent brightness spread
Its glories o'er the mountain's head:
Then would I bend from my high place
To gaze upon th' horizon's space,
A tract sublime of various grace.
Yet first the charmed eye
The lowland home-scene's vallies sweet,
Of wood and turf and field;
Where the snug cot, the lordly seat,
Like grandeur and contentment meet,
And mutual beauty yield.
And first would trace the winding road
Which through the beech-wood leads,
By red-cloak'd maids and ploughmen trod,
Rich wains and prancing steeds.
And first admire those beechen trees,
Whose upper branches in the breeze,
All bare and polish'd seem to freeze;
Whilst, feather'd like an archer's barb,
Each lower bough, in saffron garb,
Catches the rain-drops as they fall,
And answers to the night-wind's call.
Among those woods one chimney white
Just glances in the southern light,
Deep bosom'd in th' impervious glades,
The fairy bow'r of Brittwell's shades*.
Is it the woodman's fair retreat
Where merry children sport?
Or the rough keeper's jovial seat,
Where hounds and huntsmen frequent meet,
And hold their sylvan court?
* Brittwell nunnery. The retreat of several aged nuns, who were driven from France by the revolution.
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