He leads the ftaring infant thro' the hall;
Points out the horny fpoils that grace the wall;
Tells how this ftag thro' three whole counties fled,
What rivers fwam, where bay'd, and where he bled.
Now he the wonders of the fox repeats,
Defcribes the defp'rate chafe, and all his cheats;
How, in one day, beneath his furious speed,
He tir'd feven courfers of the fleetest breed';
How high the pale he leap'd, how wide the ditch,
When the hound tore the haunches of the witch *.
These stories, which defcend from fon to fon,
The forward boy fhall one day make his own.
Ah! too fond mother! think the time draws nigh
That calls the darling from thy tender eye;
How fhall his fpirit brook the rigid rules,
And the long tyranny of grammar schools ?
Let younger brothers o'er dull authors plod,
Lash'd into Latin by the tingling rod :
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,
The milk-maid (thoughtless of her future fhame)
With fmacking lip fhall raise his guilty flame:
The dairy, barn, the hay-loft, and the grove,
Shall oft' be confcious of their ftolen love.
But think, Prifcilla, on that dreadful time,
When pangs and wat'ry qualms fhall own thy crime;
How wilt thou tremble, when thy nipple's prefs'd,
To see the white drops bathe thy fwelling breast!
Nine moons fhall publicly divulge thy fhame,
And the young Squire foreftali a father's name.
When twice twelve times the reaper's fweeping hand With levell'd harvefts has beftrown the land,'
The mok common accident to fportfmen, to hunt a witch in the shape of a hare.
On fam'd St. Hubert's feaft, his winding horn
Shall chear the joyful hound and wake the morn;
This memorable day his eager fpeed
Shall urge with bloody heel the rifing fteed.
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 duft his grov'ling honour lies;
Headlong he falls, and on the rugged ftone
Distorts his neck, and cracks the collar-bone.
O, vent'rous youth! thy thirft of game allay;
May'ft thou furvive the perils of this day!-
He fhall furvive; and in late years be fent
To fnore away debates in Parliament.
The time shall come when his more folid sense,
With nod important, fhall the laws dispense;
A Juftice with grave juftices fhall fit ;
He praise their wifdom, they admire his wit.
No greyhound fhall attend the tenant's pace,
No rufty gun the farmer's chimney grace;
Salmons fhall leave their coverts void of fear,
Nor dread the thievish net or triple spear;
Poachers fhall tremble at his awful name,
Whom vengeance now o'ertakes for murder'd game.
Affift me, Bacchus! and ye drunken pow'rs!
To fing his friendships and his midnight hours.
Why dost thou glory in thy ftrength of beer,
Firm-cork'd, and mellow'd till the twentieth year,
Brew'd or when Phoebus warms the fleecy fign,
Or when his languid rays in Scorpio shine?
Think on the mischiefs which from hence have sprung!
It arms with curfes dire the wrathful tongue;
Foul fcandal to the lying lip affords,
And prompts the mem'ry with injurious words.
O, where is wifdom, when by this o'erpower'd?
The ftate is cenfur'd, and the maid deflower'd!
And wilt thou ftill, O Squire! brew ale fo ftrong?
Hear then the dictates of prophetick fong.
Methinks I fee him in his hall appear,
Where the long table floats in clammy beer;
'Midft mugs and glaffes fhatter'd o'er the floor,
Dead drunk, his fervile crew fupinely fnore;
Triumphant, o'er the proftrate brutes he stands,
The mighty bumper trembles in his hands;
Boldly he drinks; and, like his glorious fires,
In copious gulps of potent ale expires!
THE MOURNING MUSE OF ALEXIS.
LAMENTING THE DEATH OF QUEEN MARY.
Infandum regina jubes renovare dolorem.
EHOLD, Alexis! fee this gloomy fhade,
Which feems alone for Sorrow's fhelter made,
Where no glad beams of light can ever play,
But night, fucceeding night, excludes the day;
Where never birds with harmony repair,
And lightsome notes, to chear the dusky air,
To welcome day, or bid the fun farewel,
By morning lark or evening Philomel.
No violet here, nor daify, e'er was seen,
No fweetly-budding flower, nor fpringing green;
For fragrant myrtle and the blushing rofe,
Here baleful yew with deadly cyprefs grows.
Here, then, extended on this wither'd mofs,
We'll lie, and thou shalt fing of Albion's lofs;
Of Albion's loss, and of Paftora's death,
Begin thy mournful fong, and raife thy tuneful breath.
Ah, woe too great! ah, theme which far exceeds
The lowly lays of humble fhepherds reeds!
O could I fing in verfe of equal ftrain
With the Sicilian bard or Mantuan fwain,
Or melting words and moving numbers chufe,
Sweet as the British Colin's Mourning Mufe;
Could I, like him, in tuneful grief excel,
And mourn like Stella for her Astrophel;
Then might I raise my voice, (fecure of skill)
And with melodious woe the vallies fill;
The lift'ning echo on my fong fhould wait,
And hollow rocks Paftora's name repeat;
Each whistling wind and murm'ring stream should tell,
How lov'd fhe liv'd, and how lamented fell.
Wert thou with ev'ry bay and laurel crown'd,
And high as Pan himself in fong renown'd,
Yet would not all thy art avail to show
Verfe worthy of her name or of our woe:
But fuch true paffion in thy face appears,
In thy pale lips, thick fighs, and gushing tears,
Such tender forrow in thy heart I read,
As fhall fupply all fkill, if not exceed.
Then leave this common form of dumb distress,
Each vulgar grief can fighs and tears express;
In fweet complaining notes thy paffion vent,
And not in fighs, but words explaining fighs, lament.
Wild be my words, Menalcas, wild my thought,
Artlefs as Nature's notes in birds untaught:
Boundless my verfe, and roving be my ftrains,
Various as flow'rs on unfrequented plains.
And thou, Thalia! darling of my breaft,
By whom infpir'd, I fung at Comus' feaft,
While in a ring the jolly rural throng-
Have fate and fmil'd to hear my chearful fong,
Be gone, with all thy mirth and sprightly lays!
My pipe no longer now thy pow'r obeys:
Learn to lament, my Mufe! to weep and mourn,
Thy fpringing laurels all to cypress turn;
Wound with thy difmal cries the tender air,
And beat thy fnowy breast and rend thy yellow hair:
Far hence, in utmost wilds,
Be gone, Thalia! Sorrow is
I mourn Paftora dead; let Albion mourn,
And fable clouds her chalky cliffs adorn.'
No more these woods fhall with her fight be blefs'd, Nor with her feet these flow'ry plains be prefs'd;
No more the winds shall with her treffes play,
And from her balmy breath steal sweets away;
No more these rivers chearfully fhall pafs,
Pleas'd to reflect the beauties of her face,
While on their banks the wond'ring flocks have ftood,
Greedy of fight, and negligent of food.
No more the nymphs shall with soft tales delight
Her ears, no more with dances please her fight;
Nor ever more shall fwain make song of mirth,
To blefs the joyous day that gave her birth:
Loft is that day, which had from her it's light,
For ever loft with her in endless night;
In endless night, and arms of Death, she lies;
Death in eternal fhades has fhut Paftora's
Lament, ye nymphs! and mourn, ye wretched fwains!
Stray, all ye flocks! and defart be, ye plains!
Sigh, all ye winds! and weep, ye crystal floods!
Fade, all ye flow'rs! and wither, all ye woods!
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