All in the land of Elex next he chaunts, How to sleek mares ftarch quakers turn gallants ; How the grave brother stood on bank so green. Happy for him if mares had never been!

Then he was seiz'd with a religious qualm, And on a sudden sung the hundredth pfalm.

He sung of Taffey Welch, and Sawney Scot, 115 Lilly-bullero, and the Irish Trot. Why should I tell of Bateman or of Shore, Or Wantley's Dragon slain by valiant Moore, The Bow'r of Rosamond, or Robin Hood, And how the grass now grows where Troy town stood?

His carols ceas’d: the list ning maids and fwains Seem still to hear some soft imperfect strains. Sudden he rose; and, as he reels along, Swears kisses sweet should well reward his song. The damsels laughing Ay: the giddy clown 125 Again upon a wheat-sheaf drops adown; The pow'r that guards the drunk, his sleep attends, Till, ruddy, like his face, the fun descends.

Lioc
109. A Song of Sir J. Denham's. See his Poems.
113. Et fortunatam, fi nunquam armenta fuifent,
Pasipbaen.

VIRG.
137. Quid loquar aut Scyllam nisi, &c. Virg.
117. Old English ballads.

THE BIRTH OF THE SQUIRE.

AN

ECLOGUE.

IN IMITATION OF THE POLLIO OF VIRGIL.

BY THE SAME.

Ye fylvan Muses, loftier strains recite,
Not all in shades and humble cotts delight.
Hark! the bells ring ; along the distant grounds
The driving gales convey the swelling sounds;
Th'attentive swain, forgetful of his work, 5
With gaping wonder, leans upon his fork.
What sudden news alarms the waking morn?
To the glad Squire a hopeful heir is born.
Mourn, mourn, ye stags, and all ye beasts of chace;
This hour destruction brings on all your race :
See the pleas'd tenants duteous off'rings bear,
Turkeys and geese, and grocers sweetest ware ;
With the new health the pond'rous tankard flows,
And old October reddens ev'ry nose.
Beagles and spaniels round his cradle stand, 15
Kiss his moist lip, and gently lick his hand.
He joys to hear the shrill horn's echoing sounds,
And learns to lisp the names of all the hounds.

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With frothy ale to make his cup o'erflow,
Barley shall in paternal acres grow;
The bee shall sip the fragrant dew from flow’rs,
To give metheglin for his morning hours;
For him the cluftring hop shall climb the poles,
And his own orchard sparkle in his bowls.

His Sire's exploits he now with wonder hears,
The monstrous tales indulge his greedy ears;
How, when youth ftrung his nerves, and warm'd

his veins, He rode the mighty Nimrod of the plains. He leads the staring infant through the hall, Points out the horny spoils that grace the wall; 30 Tells, how this stag through three whole countys

fled, What rivers swam, where bay'd, and where he bled. Now he the wonders of the fox repeats, Describes the desp’rate chace, and all his cheats ; How in one day, beneath his furious speed, 35 He tir'd seven coursers of the fleetest breed; How high the pale he leapt, how wide the ditch, When the hound tore the haunches of the * witch! These stories, which defcend from son to son, The forward boy shall one day make his own. 40

* The moft common accident to Sportsmen; to hunt a witch in the shape of a hare.

Ah, too fond mother, think the time draws nigh, That calls the darling from thy tender eye; How shall his fpirit brook the rigid rules, And the long tyranny of grammar-schools ? Let younger brothers o'er dull authors plod, 45 Lash'd into Latin by the tingling red; No, let him never feel that smart disgrace : Why should he wiser prove than all his race? When rip’ning youth with down o’erfhades his

chin, And ev'ry female eye incites to fin;

50 The milk-maid (thoughtless of her future shame) With smacking lip shall raise his guilty flame; The dairy, barn, the hay-loft, and the grove, Shall oft' be conscious of their stolen love. But think, Priscilla, on that dreadful time, 55 When pangs and watry qualms shall own thy crime. How wilt thou tremble, when thy nipple's prest, To see the white drops bathe thy swelling breaft! Nine moons shall publickly divulge thy shame, And the young Squire forestall a father's name. When twice twelve times the reaper's sweeping

hand With leveli'd harvests has beftrown the land; On fam'd St. Hubert's feast, his winding horn Shall cheer the joyful hound, and wake the morn! This memorable day his eager speed 65 Shall urge with bloody heel the rising steed.

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O check the foamy bit, nor tempt thy fate,
Think on the murders of a five-bar gate !
Yet, prodigal of life, the leap he tries,
Low in the dust his groveling honour lies;
Headlong he falls, and on the rugged stone
Distorts his neck, and cracks the collar-bone :
O venturous youth, thy thirst of game allay ;
May'st thou survive the perils of this day!
He shall survive; and in late years be sent
To snore away Debates in Parliament.

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The time shall come, when his more folid sense With nod important shall the laws dispense; A Justice with grave Justices shall fit; He praise their wisdom, they admire his wit. 80 No greyhound shall attend the tenant's pace, No rusty gun the farmer's chimney grace ; Salmons shall leave their covers void of fear, Nor dread the thievith net or triple spear; Poachers shall tremble at his awful name, Whom vengeance now o’ertakes for murder'd game.

Assist me, Bacchus, and ye drunken pow'rs, To sing his friendships and his midnight hours !

Why dost thou glory in thy strength of beer, Firm-cork'd and mellow'd till the twentieth year; Brew'd or when Phoebus warms the fleecy sign, Or when his languid rays in Scorpio shine ?

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