Conversing with your sprightly boys,Your eyes have spoke the mother's joys.With what delight I've heard you quoteTheir sayings in imperfect note!I grant, in body and in mind,Nature appears profusely kind.Trust not to that. Act you your part;Imprint just morals on their heart,Impartially their talents scan:Just education forms the man._10Perhaps (their genius yet unknown)Each lot of life's already thrown;That this shall plead, the next shall fight,The last assert the church's right.I censure not the fond intent;But how precarious is the event!By talents misapplied and cross'd,Consider, all your sons are lost.One day (the tale's by Martial penned)A father thus addressed his friend:_20'To train my boy, and call forth sense,You know I've stuck at no expense;I've tried him in the several arts,(The lad no doubt hath latent parts,)Yet trying all, he nothing knows;But, crab-like, rather backward goes.Teach me what yet remains undone;'Tis your advice shall fix my son.''Sir,' says the friend, 'I've weighed the matter;Excuse me, for I scorn to flatter:_30Make him (nor think his genius checked)A herald or an architect.'Perhaps (as commonly 'tis known)He heard the advice, and took his own.The boy wants wit; he's sent to school,Where learning but improves the fool:The college next must give him parts,And cram him with the liberal arts.Whether he blunders at the bar,Or owes his infamy to war;_40Or if by licence or degreeThe sexton shares the doctor's fee:Or from the pulpit by the hourHe weekly floods of nonsense pour;We find (the intent of nature foiled)A tailor or a butcher spoiled.Thus ministers have royal boonsConferred on blockheads and buffoons:In spite of nature, merit, wit,Their friends for every post were fit._50But now let every Muse confessThat merit finds its due success.The examples of our days regard;Where's virtue seen without reward?Distinguished and in place you findDesert and worth of every kind.Survey the reverend bench, and see,Religion, learning, piety:The patron, ere he recommends,Sees his own image in his friends._60Is honesty disgraced and poor?What is't to us what was before?We all of times corrupt have heard,When paltry minions were preferred;When all great offices by dozens,Were filled by brothers, sons, and cousins.What matter ignorance and pride?The man was happily allied.Provided that his clerk was good,What though he nothing understood?_70In church and state, the sorry raceGrew more conspicuous fools in place.Such heads, as then a treaty made,Had bungled in the cobbler's trade.Consider, patrons, that such elves,Expose your folly with themselves.'Tis yours, as 'tis the parent's care,To fix each genius in its sphere.Your partial hand can wealth dispense,But never give a blockhead sense._80An owl of magisterial air,Of solemn voice, of brow austere,Assumed the pride of human race,And bore his wisdom in his face;Not to depreciate learned eyes,I've seen a pedant look as wise.Within a barn, from noise retired,He scorned the world, himself admired;And, like an ancient sage, concealedThe follies public life revealed._90Philosophers of old, he read,Their country's youth to science bred,Their manners formed for every station,And destined each his occupation.When Xenophon, by numbers braved,Retreated, and a people saved,That laurel was not all his own;The plant by Socrates was sown;To Aristotle's greater nameThe Macedonian[10] owed his fame._100The Athenian bird, with pride replete,Their talents equalled in conceit;And, copying the Socratic rule,Set up for master of a school.Dogmatic jargon learnt by heart,Trite sentences, hard terms of art,To vulgar ears seemed so profound,They fancied learning in the sound.The school had fame: the crowded placeWith pupils swarmed of every race._110With these the swan's maternal careHad sent her scarce-fledged cygnet heir:The hen (though fond and loath to part)Here lodged the darling of her heart:The spider, of mechanic kind,Aspired to science more refined:The ass learnt metaphors and tropes,But most on music fixed his hopes.The pupils now advanced in age,Were called to tread life's busy stage._120And to the master 'twas submitted,That each might to his part be fitted.'The swan,' says he, 'in arms shall shine:The soldier's glorious toil be thine.The cock shall mighty wealth attain:Go, seek it on the stormy main.The Court shall be the spider's sphere:Power, fortune, shall reward him there.In music's art the ass's fameShall emulate Corelli's[1] name._130Each took the part that he advised,And all were equally despised;A farmer, at his folly moved,The dull preceptor thus reproved:'Blockhead,' says he, 'by what you've done,One would have thought 'em each your son:For parents, to their offspring blind,Consult, nor parts, nor turn of mind;But even in infancy decreeWhat this, what t'other son should be._140Had you with judgment weighed the case,Their genius thus had fixed their place:The swan had learnt the sailor's art;The cock had played the soldier's part;The spider in the weaver's tradeWith credit had a fortune made;But for the fool, in every classThe blockhead had appeared an ass.'
* * * * *
Consider man in every sphere,Then tell me is your lot severe?'Tis murmur, discontent, distrust,That makes you wretched. God is just.I grant, that hunger must be fed,That toil too earns thy daily bread.What then? Thy wants are seen and known,But every mortal feels his own.We're born a restless, needy crew:Show me the happier man than you._10Adam, though blest above his kind,For want of social woman pined,Eve's wants the subtle serpent saw,Her fickle taste transgressed the law:Thus fell our sires; and their disgraceThe curse entailed on human race.When Philip's son, by glory led,Had o'er the globe his empire spread;When altars to his name were dressed,That he was man, his tears confessed._20The hopes of avarice are check'd:The proud man always wants respect.What various wants on power attend!Ambition never gains its end.Who hath not heard the rich complainOf surfeits and corporeal pain?He, barred from every use of wealth,Envies the ploughman's strength and health.Another in a beauteous wifeFinds all the miseries of life:_30Domestic jars and jealous fearEmbitter all his days with care.This wants an heir, the line is lost:Why was that vain entail engross'd?Canst thou discern another's mind?Why is't you envy? Envy's blind.Tell Envy, when she would annoy,That thousands want what you enjoy.'The dinner must be dished at one.Where's this vexatious turnspit gone?_40Unless the skulking cur is caught,The sirloin's spoiled, and I'm in fault.'Thus said: (for sure you'll think it fitThat I the cook-maid's oaths omit)With all the fury of a cook,Her cooler kitchen Nan forsook.The broomstick o'er her head she waves;She sweats, she stamps, she puffs, she raves.The sneaking cur before her flies:She whistles, calls; fair speech she tries._50These nought avail. Her choler burns;The fist and cudgel threat by turns;With hasty stride she presses near;He slinks aloof, and howls with fear.'Was ever cur so cursed!' he cried,'What star did at my birth preside?Am I for life by compact boundTo tread the wheel's eternal round?Inglorious task! Of all our raceNo slave is half so mean and base._60Had fate a kinder lot assigned,And formed me of the lap-dog kind,I then, in higher life employed,Had indolence and ease enjoyed;And, like a gentleman, caress'd,Had been the lady's favourite guest.Or were I sprung from spaniel line,Was his sagacious nostril mine,By me, their never-erring guide,From wood and plain their feasts supplied_70Knights, squires, attendant on my pace,Had shared the pleasures of the chase.Endued with native strength and fire,Why called I not the lion sire?A lion! such mean views I scorn.Why was I not of woman born?Who dares with reason's power contend?On man we brutal slaves depend:To him all creatures tribute pays,And luxury employs his days.'_80An ox by chance o'erheard his moan,And thus rebuked the lazy drone:'Dare you at partial fate repine?How kind's your lot compared with mine!Decreed to toil, the barbarous knifeHath severed me from social life;Urged by the stimulating goad,I drag the cumbrous waggon's load:'Tis mine to tame the stubborn plain,Break the stiff soil, and house the grain;_90Yet I without a murmur bearThe various labours of the year.But then consider, that one day,(Perhaps the hour's not far away,)You, by the duties of your post,Shall turn the spit when I'm the roast:And for reward shall share the feast;I mean, shall pick my bones at least.'''Till now,' the astonished cur replies,'I looked on all with envious eyes._100How false we judge by what appears!All creatures feel their several cares.If thus yon mighty beast complains,Perhaps man knows superior pains.Let envy then no more torment:Think on the ox, and learn content.'Thus said: close following at her heel,With cheerful heart he mounts the wheel.
Laura, methinks you're over nice.True, flattery is a shocking vice;Yet sure, whene'er the praise is just,One may commend without disgust.Am I a privilege denied,Indulged by every tongue beside?How singular are all your ways!A woman, and averse to praise!If 'tis offence such truths to tell,Why do your merits thus excel?_10Since then I dare not speak my mind,A truth conspicuous to mankind;Though in full lustre every graceDistinguish your celestial face:Though beauties of inferior ray(Like stars before the orb of day)Turn pale and fade: I check my lays,Admiring what I dare not praise.If you the tribute due disdain,The Muse's mortifying strain_20Shall like a woman in mere spite,Set beauty in a moral light.Though such revenge might shock the earOf many a celebrated fair;I mean that superficial raceWhose thoughts ne'er reach beyond their face;What's that to you? I but displeaseSuch ever-girlish ears as these.Virtue can brook the thoughts of age,That lasts the same through every stage._30Though you by time must suffer moreThan ever woman lost before;To age is such indifference shown,As if your face were not your own.Were you by Antoninus[1] taught?Or is it native strength of thought,That thus, without concern or fright,You view yourself by reason's light?Those eyes of so divine a ray,What are they? Mouldering, mortal clay._40Those features, cast in heavenly mould,Shall, like my coarser earth, grow old;Like common grass, the fairest flowerMust feel the hoary season's power.How weak, how vain is human pride!Dares man upon himself confide?The wretch who glories in his gain,Amasses heaps on heaps in vain.Why lose we life in anxious cares,To lay in hoards for future years?_50Can those (when tortured by disease)Cheer our sick heart, or purchase ease?Can those prolong one gasp of breath,Or calm the troubled hour of death?What's beauty? Call ye that your own?A flower that fades as soon as blown.What's man in all his boast of sway?Perhaps the tyrant of a day.Alike the laws of life take placeThrough every branch of human race,_60The monarch of long regal lineWas raised from dust as frail as mine.Can he pour health into his veins,Or cool the fever's restless pains?Can he (worn down in Nature's course)New-brace his feeble nerves with force?Can he (how vain is mortal power!)Stretch life beyond the destined hour?Consider, man; weigh well thy frame;The king, the beggar is the same._70Dust forms us all. Each breathes his day,Then sinks into his native clay.Beneath a venerable yew,That in the lonely church-yard grew,Two ravens sat. In solemn croakThus one his hungry friend bespoke:'Methinks I scent some rich repast;The savour strengthens with the blast;Snuff then, the promised feast inhale;I taste the carcase in the gale;_80Near yonder trees, the farmer's steed,From toil and daily drudgery freed,Hath groaned his last. A dainty treat!To birds of taste delicious meat.'A sexton, busy at his trade,To hear their chat suspends his spade.Death struck him with no further thought,Than merely as the fees he brought.'Was ever two such blundering fowls,In brains and manners less than owls!_90Blockheads,' says he, 'learn more respect;Know ye on whom ye thus reflect?In this same grave (who does me right,Must own the work is strong and tight)The squire that yon fair hall possessed,Tonight shall lay his bones at rest.Whence could the gross mistake proceed?The squire was somewhat fat indeed.What then? The meanest bird of preySuch want of sense could ne'er betray;_100For sure some difference must be found(Suppose the smelling organ sound)In carcases (say what we can)Or where's the dignity of man?'With due respect to human race,The ravens undertook the case.In such similitude of scent,Man ne'er eould think reflections meant.As epicures extol a treat,And seem their savoury words to eat,_110They praised dead horse, luxurious food,The venison of the prescient brood.The sexton's indignation moved,The mean comparison reproved;The undiscerning palate blamed,Which two-legged carrion thus defamed.Reproachful speech from either sideThe want of argument supplied:They rail, revile: as often endsThe contest of disputing friends._120'Hold,' says the fowl; 'since human prideWith confutation ne'er complied,Let's state the case, and then referThe knotty point: for taste may err.'As thus he spoke, from out the mouldAn earth-worm, huge of size, unrolledHis monstrous length. They straight agreeTo choose him as their referee.So to the experience of his jaws,Each states the merits of his cause._130He paused, and with a solemn tone,Thus made his sage opinion known:'On carcases of every kindThis maw hath elegantly dined;Provoked by luxury or need,On beast, on fowl, on man, I feed;Such small distinctions in the savour,By turns I choose the fancied flavour,Yet I must own (that human beast)A glutton is the rankest feast._140Man, cease this boast; for human prideHath various tracts to range beside.The prince who kept the world in awe,The judge whose dictate fixed the law,The rich, the poor, the great, the small,Are levelled. Death confounds them all.Then think not that we reptiles shareSuch cates, such elegance of fair:The only true and real goodOf man was never vermin's food._150'Tis seated in the immortal mind;Virtue distinguishes mankind,And that (as yet ne'er harboured here)Mounts with his soul we know not where.So, good man sexton, since the caseAppears with such a dubious face,To neither I the cause determine,For different tastes please different vermin.'
1
All in the Downs the fleet was moor'd,The streamers waving in the wind,When black-eye'd Susan came aboard.Oh! where shall I my true-love find?Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true,If my sweet William sails among the crew.
2
William, who high upon the yardRock'd with the billow to and fro,Soon as her well-known voice he heard,He sigh'd, and cast his eyes below;The cord slides swiftly through his glowing hands,And (quick as lightning) on the deck he stands.
3
So the sweet lark, high poised in air,Shuts close his pinions to his breast,(If chance his mate's shrill call he hear,)And drops at once into her nest.The noblest captain in the British fleetMight envy William's lip those kisses sweet.
4
O Susan, Susan, lovely dear,My vows shall ever true remain;Let me kiss off that falling tear;We only part to meet again.Change, as ye list, ye winds; my heart shall beThe faithful compass that still points to thee.
5
Believe not what the landmen say,Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind.They'll tell thee, sailors, when away,In every port a mistress find:Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so,For thou art present wheresoe'er I go.
6
If to fair India's coast we sail,Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright,Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale,Thy skin is ivory so white.Thus every beauteous object that I view,Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue.
7
Though battle call me from thy arms,Let not my pretty Susan mourn;Though cannons roar, yet, safe from harms,William shall to his dear return.Love turns aside the balls that round me fly,Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye.
8
The boatswain gave the dreadful word,The sails their swelling bosom spread;No longer must she stay aboard:They kiss'd, she sigh'd, he hung his head.Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land:Adieu! she cries; and waved her lily hand.
* * * * *
1
'Twas when the seas were roaringWith hollow blasts of wind;A damsel lay deploring,All on a rock reclined.Wide o'er the foaming billowsShe casts a wistful look;Her head was crown'd with willows,That trembled o'er the brook.
2
Twelve months are gone and over,And nine long tedious days.Why didst thou, venturous lover,Why didst thou trust the seas?Cease, cease, thou cruel ocean,And let my lover rest:Ah! what's thy troubled motionTo that within my breast?
3
The merchant, robb'd of pleasure,Sees tempests in despair:But what's the loss of treasure,To losing of my dear?Should you some coast be laid on,Where gold and diamonds grow,You'd find a richer maiden,But none that loves you so.
4
How can they say that natureHas nothing made in vain;Why then beneath the waterShould hideous rocks remain?No eyes the rocks discover,That lurk beneath the deep,To wreck the wandering lover,And leave the maid to weep.
5
All melancholy lying,Thus wail'd she for her dear;Repaid each blast with sighing,Each billow with a tear;When o'er the white wave stooping,His floating corpse she spied;Then, like a lily drooping,She bow'd her head, and died.
Footnotes:
[Footnote 1: Second son of George II.; born in 1721; he was five years old at the date of the publication of the 'Fables,' which were written for his instruction. He is 'Culloden' Cumberland.]
[Footnote 2: 'Siam,' a country famous for elephants.]
[Footnote 3: 'Gresham Hall,' originally the house of Sir Thomas Gresham in Winchester. It was converted by his will into a college, no remains of which now exist.]
[Footnote 4: 'Curl,' a famous publisher to Grub Street.]
[Footnote 5: Garth's Dispensary.]
[Footnote 6: 'Porta:' a native of Naples, famous for skill in the occult sciences. He wrote a book on Physiognomy, seeking to trace in the human face resemblances to animals, and to infer similar correspondences in mind.]
[Footnote 7: '——When impious men bear sway,The post of honour is a private station.'-ADDISON.]
[Footnote 8: 'Antiochus': See Plutarch.]
[Footnote 9: Barrow.]
[Footnote 10: 'The Macedonian:' Alexander the Great.]
[Footnote 11: 'Corelli:' Arcangelo, the greatest fiddler, till Paganini, that has appeared. He was born in the territory of Bologna, in 1653, and died in 1713.]
[Footnote 12: 'Antoninus:' Marcus, one of the few emperors who have been also philosophers.]
* * * * *
There is a chapter in an old history of Iceland which has often moved merriment. The title of it is, "Concerning Snakes in Iceland," and the contents are, "Snakes in Iceland there are none." We suspect, when our "Life of William Somerville" is ended, not a few will find in it a parallel for that comprehensive chapter, although we strenuously maintain that the fault of an insipid and uninteresting life is not always to be charged on the biographer.
In "Sartor Resartus" our readers remember an epitaph, somewhat coarse, although disguised in good dog-Latin, upon a country squire, and his sayings and doings in this world. We have not a copy of that work at hand, and cannot quote the epitaph, nor would we, though we could, since even the dog-Latin is too plain and perspicuous for many readers. We recommend those, however, who choose to turn it up; and they will find in it (with the exception of the writing of "the Chase") the full history of William Somerville, of whom we know little, but that he was born, that he hunted, ate, drank, and died.
He was born in 1682; but in what month, or on what day, we are not informed. His estate was in Warwickshire, its name Edston, and he had inherited it from a long line of ancestors. His family prided itself upon being the first family in the county. He himself boasts of having been born on the banks of Avon, which has thus at least produced two poets, of somewhat different calibre indeed—the one a deer-stealer, and the other a fox-hunter—Shakspeare and Somerville. Somerville was educated at Winchester School, and was afterwards elected fellow of New College. From his studies—of his success in which we know nothing—he returned to his native county, and there, says Johnson, "was distinguished as a poet, a gentleman, and a skilful and useful justice of the peace;"—we may add, as a jovial companion and a daring fox-hunter. His estate brought him in about £1500 a-year, but his extravagance brought him into pecuniary distresses, which weighed upon his mind, plunged him into intemperate habits, and hurried him away in his 60th year. Shenstone, who knew him well, thus mourns aver his departure in one of his letters:—"Our old friend Somerville is dead; I did not imagine I could have been so sorry as I find myself on this occasion.Sublatum quoerimus, I can now excuse all his foibles; impute them to age and to distressed circumstances. The last of these considerations wrings my very soul to think on; for a man of high spirit, conscious of having (at least in one production) generally pleased the world, to be plagued and threatened by wretches that are low in every sense; to be forced to drink himself into pains of the body in order to get rid of the pains of the mind, is a misery."
Somerville died July 19, 1742, and was buried at Wotton, near Henley-on-Arden. His estate went to Lord Somerville in Scotland, but his mother, who lived to a great age, had a jointure of £600. He describes himself, in verses addressed to Allan Ramsay, as
"A squire, well-born and six feet high."
He seems, from the affection and sympathy discovered for him by Shenstone, to have possessed the virtues as well as the vices of the squirearchy of that age; their frankness, sociality, and heart, as well as their improvidence and tendency to excess; and may altogether be called a sublimated Squire Western.
As to his poetry, much of it is beneath criticism. His "Fables," "Tales," "Hobbinol, or Rural Games," &c., have all in them poetical lines, but cannot, as a whole, be called poetry. He wrote some verses, entitled "Address to Addison," on the latter purchasing an estate in Warwickshire (he gave his Countess £4000 in exchange for it). In this there are two lines which Dr Johnson highly commends, saying "They are written with the most exquisite delicacy of praise; they exhibit one of those happy strokes that are seldom attained."—Here is this bepraised couplet:—
"When panting virtue her last efforts made,You brought your Clio to the virgin's aid."
Clio, of course, refers to Addison's signatures in the "Spectator," consisting of the four letters composing the name of the Muse of History, used in alternation. We cannot coincide in Johnson's encomium. The allusion is, we think, at once indecent and obscure; and what, after all, does it say, but that Addison's papers aided the struggling cause of virtue?
In the same verses we find a fulsome and ridiculous preference of Addison to Shakspeare!
"In heaven he sings, on earth your Muse suppliesThe important loss, and heals our weeping eyes;Correctly great, she melts each flinty heart,With EQUAL GENIUS, but SUPERIOR ART."
Surely the force of falsehood and flattery can go no further.
It is a pleasure to turn from these small and shallow things to the "Chase," which, if not a great poem, is founded on a most poetical subject, and which, here and there, sparkles into fine fancy. Dr Johnson truly remarks, that Somerville "set a good example to men of his own class, by devoting a part of his time to elegant knowledge, and has shewn, by the subjects which his poetry has adorned, that it is practicable to be at once a skilful sportsman and a man of letters." But besides this purpose to be the poet—and hitherto he has been almost the sole poet of the squirearchy, as considered apart from the aristocracy—Somerville has the merit of being inspired by a genuine love for the subject. He writes directly from the testimony of his own eyes, and the impulses of his own heart. He has obviously had the mould of his poem suggested by Thomson's "Seasons," but it is the mould only; the thoughts and feelings which are poured into it are his own. He loves the giddy ride over stock and stone, hedge and petty precipice; the invigoration which the keen breath of autumn or winter, like that of a sturdy veteran, gives the animal spirits; the animated aspect of the "assembled jockeyship of half a province;" the wild music of hounds, and horns, and hollas, vieing with each other in mirth and loudness; the breathless interest of the start; the emulous pant of the coursers; the excitement of the moment when the fox appears; the sweeping tumult of the pursuit; the dreamlike rapidity with which five-barred gates are cleared, the yellow or naked woods are passed, and the stubble-ridges "swallowed up in the fierceness and rage" of the rushing steeds; the indifference of those engaged in the headlong sport to the danger or even the death of their companions; the lengthening and deepening howl of the hounds as they near their prey; the fierce silence of the dying victim; and the fiercer shout of victory which announces to the echoes that the brush is won, and the glorious (or inglorious) day's work is over;—all this Somerville loves, and has painted with considerable power. In the course of the poem, he sings also of the mysteries of the dog-kennel—pursues the blood-hound on his track of death—describes a stag-hunt in Windsor Forest—paints the fearful phenomena of canine madness—hunts the hare in a joyous spirit—and goes down after the otter into its watery recesses, and watches its divings and devious motions as with the eyes of a sea-eagle. And, besides, (here also imitating Thomson,) he is led away from the comparatively tame "Chase" of England to the more dangerous and more inspiring sports of other lands, where "the huntsmen are up in Arabia," in pursuit of the wolf, where the bear is bayed amidst forests dark as itself, where the leopard is snared by its own image in a mirror, where the lion falls roaring into the prepared pit, and where the "Chase" is pursued on a large scale by assembled princes amidst the jungles of India.
We doubt not, however, that, were a genuine poet of this age taking up the "Chase" as a subject for song, and availing himself of the accounts of recent travellers, themselves often true poets, such as Lloyd, Livingstone, Cumming Bruce, and Charles Boner, (see the admirable "Chamois Hunting in Bavaria" of the latter,) he would produce a strain incomparably higher than Somerville's. Wilson, at least, as we know from his "Christopher in his Sporting Jacket," and many other articles inMaga, was qualified, in part by nature and in part by extensive experience, to have written such a poem. Indeed, one sentence of his is superior to anything in the "Chase." Speaking of the charge of the cruelty of chasing such an insignificant animal as a fox, he says, "What though it be but a smallish, reddish-brown, sharp-nosed animal, with pricked-up ears, and passionately fond of poultry, that they pursue? After the first tallyho, reynard is rarely seen till he is run in upon—once, perhaps, in the whole run, skirting a wood, or crossing a common. It is anidea that is pursuedon a whirlwind of horses, to a storm of canine music, worthy both of the largest lion that ever leaped among a band of Moors sleeping at midnight by an extinguished fire on the African sands." We do not answer for the humanity of this description, but it certainly seems to us to exhaust the subject of the chase, alike in its philosophy and its poetry.[1]
* * * * *
The subject proposed.—Address to his Royal Highness the Prince.—The origin of hunting.—The rude and unpolished manner of the first hunters.—Beasts at first hunted for food and sacrifice.—The grant made by God to man of the beasts, &c.—The regular manner of hunting first brought into this island by the Normans.—The best hounds and best horses bred here.—The advantage of this exercise to us, as islanders.—Address to gentlemen of estates.—Situation of the kennel and its several courts.—The diversion and employment of hounds in the kennel.—The different sorts of hounds for each different chase.— Description of a perfect hound.—Of sizing and sorting of hounds.—The middle-sized hound recommended.—Of the large, deep-mouthed hound for hunting the stag and otter.—Of the lime-hound; their use on the borders of England and Scotland.—A physical account of scents.—Of good and bad scenting days.—A short admonition to my brethren of the couples.
The Chase I sing, hounds, and their various breed,And no less various use. O thou Great Prince![2]Whom Cambria's towering hills proclaim their lord,Deign thou to hear my bold, instructive song.While grateful citizens with pompous show,Rear the triumphal arch, rich with the exploitsOf thy illustrious house; while virgins paveThy way with flowers, and, as the royal youthPassing they view, admire, and sigh in vain;While crowded theatres, too fondly proud_10Of their exotic minstrels, and shrill pipes,The price of manhood, hail thee with a song,And airs soft-warbling; my hoarse-sounding hornInvites thee to the Chase, the sport of kings;Image of war, without its guilt. The MuseAloft on wing shall soar, conduct with careThy foaming courser o'er the steepy rock,Or on the river bank receive thee safe,Light-bounding o'er the wave, from shore to shore.Be thou our great protector, gracious youth!_20And if in future times, some envious prince,Careless of right and guileful, should invadeThy Britain's commerce, or should strive in vainTo wrest the balance from thy equal hand;Thy hunter-train, in cheerful green arrayed,(A band undaunted, and inured to toils,)Shall compass thee around, die at thy feet,Or hew thy passage through the embattled foe,And clear thy way to fame; inspired by theeThe nobler chase of glory shall pursue_30Through fire, and smoke, and blood, and fields of death.Nature, in her productions slow, aspiresBy just degrees to reach perfection's height:So mimic Art works leisurely, till TimeImprove the piece, or wise Experience giveThe proper finishing. When Nimrod bold,That mighty hunter, first made war on beasts,And stained the woodland green with purple dye,New and unpolished was the huntsman's art;No stated rule, his wanton will his guide._40With clubs and stones, rude implements of war,He armed his savage bands, a multitudeUntrained; of twining osiers formed, they pitchTheir artless toils, then range the desert hills,And scour the plains below; the trembling herdStart at the unusual sound, and clamorous shoutUnheard before; surprised alas! to findMan now their foe, whom erst they deemed their lord,But mild and gentle, and by whom as yetSecure they grazed. Death stretches o'er the plain_50Wide-wasting, and grim slaughter red with blood:Urged on by hunger keen, they wound, they kill,Their rage licentious knows no bound; at lastIncumbered with their spoils, joyful they bearUpon their shoulders broad, the bleeding prey.Part on their altars smokes a sacrificeTo that all-gracious Power, whose bounteous handSupports his wide creation; what remainsOn living coals they broil, inelegantOf taste, nor skilled as yet in nicer arts_60Of pampered luxury. Devotion pure,And strong necessity, thus first beganThe chase of beasts: though bloody was the deed,Yet without guilt. For the green herb aloneUnequal to sustain man's labouring race,Now every moving thing that lived on earthWas granted him for food. So just is Heaven,To give us in proportion to our wants.Or chance or industry in after-timesSome few improvements made, but short as yet_70Of due perfection. In this isle remoteOur painted ancestors were slow to learn,To arms devote, of the politer artsNor skilled nor studious; till from Neustria's[3] coastsVictorious William, to more decent rulesSubdued our Saxon fathers, taught to speakThe proper dialect, with horn and voiceTo cheer the busy hound, whose well-known cryHis listening peers approve with joint acclaim.From him successive huntsmen learned to join_80In bloody social leagues, the multitudeDispersed, to size, to sort their various tribes,To rear, feed, hunt, and discipline the pack.Hail, happy Britain! highly-favoured isle,And Heaven's peculiar care! To thee 'tis givenTo train the sprightly steed, more fleet than thoseBegot by winds, or the celestial breedThat bore the great Pelides through the pressOf heroes armed, and broke their crowded ranks;Which proudly neighing, with the sun begins_90Cheerful his course; and ere his beams decline,Has measured half thy surface unfatigued.In thee alone, fair land of liberty!Is bred the perfect hound, in scent and speedAs yet unrivalled, while in other climesTheir virtue fails, a weak degenerate race.In vain malignant steams, and winter fogsLoad the dull air, and hover round our coasts,The huntsman ever gay, robust, and bold,Defies the noxious vapour, and confides_100In this delightful exercise, to raiseHis drooping head and cheer his heart with joy.Ye vigorous youths, by smiling Fortune blestWith large demesnes, hereditary wealth,Heaped copious by your wise forefathers' care,Hear and attend! while I the means revealTo enjoy those pleasures, for the weak too strong,Too costly for the poor: to rein the steedSwift-stretching o'er the plain, to cheer the packOpening in concerts of harmonious joy,_110But breathing death. What though the gripe severeOf brazen-fisted Time, and slow diseaseCreeping through every vein, and nerve unstrung,Afflict my shattered frame, undaunted still,Fixed as a mountain ash, that braves the boltsOf angry Jove; though blasted, yet unfallen;Still can my soul in Fancy's mirror viewDeeds glorious once, recal the joyous sceneIn all its splendours decked, o'er the full bowlRecount my triumphs past, urge others on_120With hand and voice, and point the winding way:Pleased with that social sweet garrulity,The poor disbanded veteran's sole delight.First let the Kennel be the huntsman's care,Upon some little eminence erect,And fronting to the ruddy dawn; its courtsOn either hand wide opening to receiveThe sun's all-cheering beams, when mild he shines,And gilds the mountain tops. For much the pack(Roused from their dark alcoves) delight to stretch,_130And bask in his invigorating ray:Warned by the streaming light and merry lark,Forth rush the jolly clan; with tuneful throatsThey carol loud, and in grand chorus joinedSalute the new-born day. For not aloneThe vegetable world, but men and brutesOwn his reviving influence, and joyAt his approach. Fountain of light! if chance[4]Some envious cloud veil thy refulgent brow,In vain the Muses aid; untouched, unstrung,_140Lies my mute harp, and thy desponding bardSits darkly musing o'er the unfinished lay.Let no Corinthian pillars prop the dome,A vain expense, on charitable deedsBetter disposed, to clothe the tattered wretch,Who shrinks beneath the blast, to feed the poorPinched with afflictive want. For use, not state,Gracefully plain, let each apartment rise.O'er all let cleanliness preside, no scrapsBestrew the pavement, and no half-picked bones,_150To kindle fierce debate, or to disgustThat nicer sense, on which the sportsman's hope,And all his future triumphs must depend.Soon as the growling pack with eager joyHave lapped their smoking viands, morn or eve,From the full cistern lead the ductile streams,To wash thy court well-paved, nor spare thy pains,For much to health will cleanliness avail.Seek'st thou for hounds to climb the rocky steep,And brush the entangled covert, whose nice scent_160O'er greasy fallows, and frequented roadsCan pick the dubious way? Banish far offEach noisome stench, let no offensive smellInvade thy wide inclosure, but admitThe nitrous air, and purifying breeze.Water and shade no less demand thy care:In a large square the adjacent field inclose,There plant in equal ranks the spreading elm,Or fragrant lime; most happy thy design,If at the bottom of thy spacious court,_170A large canal fed by the crystal brook,From its transparent bosom shall reflectDownward thy structure and inverted grove.Here when the sun's too potent gleams annoyThe crowded kennel, and the drooping pack,Restless and faint, loll their unmoistened tongues,And drop their feeble tails; to cooler shadesLead forth the panting tribe; soon shalt thou findThe cordial breeze their fainting hearts revive:Tumultuous soon they plunge into the stream,_180There lave their reeking sides, with greedy joyGulp down the flying wave; this way and thatFrom shore to shore they swim, while clamour loudAnd wild uproar torments the troubled flood:Then on the sunny bank they roll and stretchTheir dripping limbs, or else in wanton ringsCoursing around, pursuing and pursued,The merry multitude disporting play.But here with watchful and observant eyeAttend their frolics, which too often end_190In bloody broils and death. High o'er thy headWave thy resounding whip, and with a voiceFierce-menacing o'errule the stern debate,And quench their kindling rage; for oft in sportBegun, combat ensues, growling they snarl,Then on their haunches reared, rampant they seizeEach other's throats, with teeth and claws in goreBesmeared, they wound, they tear, till on the ground,Panting, half dead the conquered champion lies:Then sudden all the base ignoble crowd_200Loud-clamouring seize the helpless worried wretch,And thirsting for his blood, drag different waysHis mangled carcase on the ensanguined plain.O breasts of pity void! to oppress the weak,To point your vengeance at the friendless head,And with one mutual cry insult the fallen!Emblem too just of man's degenerate race.Others apart by native instinct led,Knowing instructor! 'mong the ranker grassCull each salubrious plant, with bitter juice_210Concoctive stored, and potent to allayEach vicious ferment. Thus the hand divineOf Providence, beneficent and kindTo all His creatures, for the brutes prescribesA ready remedy, and is HimselfTheir great physician. Now grown stiff with age,And many a painful chase, the wise old houndRegardless of the frolic pack, attendsHis master's side, or slumbers at his easeBeneath the bending shade; there many a ring_220Runs o'er in dreams; now on the doubtful foilPuzzles perplexed, or doubles intricateCautious unfolds, then winged with all his speed,Bounds o'er the lawn to seize his panting prey:And in imperfect whimperings speaks his joy.A different hound for every different chaseSelect with judgment; nor the timorous hareO'ermatched destroy, but leave that vile offenceTo the mean, murderous, coursing crew; intentOn blood and spoil. O blast their hopes, just Heaven!_230And all their painful drudgeries repayWith disappointment and severe remorse.But husband thou thy pleasures, and give scopeTo all her subtle play: by nature ledA thousand shifts she tries; to unravel theseThe industrious beagle twists his waving tail,Through all her labyrinths pursues, and ringsHer doleful knell. See there with countenance blithe,And with a courtly grin, the fawning houndSalutes thee cowering, his wide-opening nose_240Upward he curls, and his large sloe-black eyesMelt in soft blandishments, and humble joy;His glossy skin, or yellow-pied, or blue,In lights or shades by Nature's pencil drawn,Reflects the various tints; his ears and legsFlecked here and there, in gay enamelled prideRival the speckled pard; his rush-grown tailO'er his broad back bends in an ample arch;On shoulders clean, upright and firm he stands,His round cat foot, straight hams, and wide-spread thighs,_250And his low-dropping chest, confess his speed,His strength, his wind, or on the steepy hill,Or far-extended plain; in every partSo well proportioned, that the nicer skillOf Phidias himself can't blame thy choice.Of such compose thy pack. But here a meanObserve, nor the large hound prefer, of sizeGigantic; he in the thick-woven covertPainfully tugs, or in the thorny brakeTorn and embarrassed bleeds: but if too small,_260The pigmy brood in every furrow swims;Moiled in the clogging clay, panting they lagBehind inglorious; or else shivering creepBenumbed and faint beneath the sheltering thorn.For hounds of middle size, active and strong,Will better answer all thy various ends,And crown thy pleasing labours with success.As some brave captain, curious and exact,By his fixed standard forms in equal ranksHis gay battalion, as one man they move_270Step after step, their size the same, their armsFar gleaming, dart the same united blaze:Reviewing generals his merit own;How regular! how just! and all his caresAre well repaid, if mighty George approve.So model thou thy pack, if honour touchThy generous soul, and the world's just applause.But above all take heed, nor mix thy houndsOf different kinds; discordant sounds shall grateThy ears offended, and a lagging line_280Of babbling curs disgrace thy broken pack.But if the amphibious otter be thy chase,Or stately stag, that o'er the woodland reigns;Or if the harmonious thunder of the fieldDelight thy ravished ears; the deep-flewed houndBreed up with care, strong, heavy, slow, but sure,Whose ears down-hanging from his thick round headShall sweep the morning dew, whose clanging voiceAwake the mountain echo in her cell,And shake the forests: the bold talbot[6] kind_290Of these the prime, as white as Alpine snows;And great their use of old. Upon the banksOf Tweed, slow winding through the vale, the seatOf war and rapine once, ere Britons knewThe sweets of peace, or Anna's dread commandsTo lasting leagues the haughty rivals awed,There dwelt a pilfering race; well-trained and skilledIn all the mysteries of theft, the spoil
Their only substance, feuds and war their sport:Not more expert in every fraudful art_300The arch felon was of old, who by the tailDrew back his lowing prize: in vain his wiles,In vain the shelter of the covering rock,In vain the sooty cloud, and ruddy flamesThat issued from his mouth; for soon he paidHis forfeit life: a debt how justly dueTo wronged Alcides, and avenging Heaven!Veiled in the shades of night they ford the stream,
Then prowling far and near, whate'er they seizeBecomes their prey; nor flocks nor herds are safe,_310Nor stalls protect the steer, nor strong barred doorsSecure the favourite horse. Soon as the mornReveals his wrongs, with ghastly visage wanThe plundered owner stands, and from his lipsA thousand thronging curses burst their way:He calls his stout allies, and in a lineHis faithful hound he leads, then with a voiceThat utters loud his rage, attentive cheers:Soon the sagacious brute, his curling tail
Flourished in air, low-bending plies around_320His busy nose, the steaming vapour snuffInquisitive, nor leaves one turf untried,Till conscious of the recent stains, his heartBeats quick; his snuffling nose, his active tailAttest his joy; then with deep opening mouthThat makes the welkin tremble, he proclaimsThe audacious felon; foot by foot he marksHis winding way, while all the listening crowdApplaud his reasonings. O'er the watery ford,Dry sandy heaths, and stony barren hill,_330O'er beaten paths, with men and beasts distained,Unerring he pursues; till at the cotArrived, and seizing by his guilty throatThe caitiff' vile, redeems the captive prey:So exquisitely delicate his sense!Should some more curious sportsman here inquire,Whence this sagacity, this wondrous powerOf tracing step by step, or man or brute?
What guide invisible points out their way,O'er the dank marsh, bleak hill, and sandy plain?_340The courteous Muse shall the dark cause reveal.The blood that from the heart incessant rollsIn many a crimson tide, then here and thereIn smaller rills disparted, as it flowsPropelled, the serous particles evadeThrough the open pores, and with the ambient airEntangling mix. As fuming vapours rise,And hang upon the gently purling brook,There by the incumbent atmosphere compressed,The panting chase grows warmer as he flies,_350And through the net-work of the skin perspires;Leaves a long-streaming trail behind, which byThe cooler air condensed, remains, unlessBy some rude storm dispersed, or rarefiedBy the meridian sun's intenser heat.To every shrub the warm effluvia cling,Hang on the grass, impregnate earth and skies.With nostrils opening wide, o'er hill, o'er dale,The vigorous hounds pursue, with every breathInhale the grateful steam, quick pleasures sting_360Their tingling nerves, while they their thanks repay,And in triumphant melody confessThe titillating joy. Thus on the airDepend the hunter's hopes. When ruddy streaksAt eve forebode a blustering stormy day,Or lowering clouds blacken the mountain's brow,When nipping frosts, and the keen biting blastsOf the dry parching east, menace the treesWith tender blossoms teeming, kindly spareThy sleeping pack, in their warm beds of straw_370Low-sinking at their ease; listless they shrinkInto some dark recess, nor hear thy voiceThough oft invoked; or haply if thy callRouse up the slumbering tribe, with heavy eyesGlazed, lifeless, dull, downward they drop their tailsInverted; high on their bent backs erectTheir pointed bristles stare, or 'mong the tuftsOf ranker weeds, each stomach-healing plantCurious they crop, sick, spiritless, forlorn.These inauspicious days, on other cares_380Employ thy precious hours; the improving friendWith open arms embrace, and from his lipsGlean science, seasoned with good-natured wit.But if the inclement skies and angry JoveForbid the pleasing intercourse, thy booksInvite thy ready hand, each sacred pageRich with the wise remarks of heroes old.Converse familiar with the illustrious dead;With great examples of old Greece or RomeEnlarge thy free-born heart, and bless kind Heaven,_390That Britain yet enjoys dear Liberty,That balm of life, that sweetest blessing, cheapThough purchased with our blood. Well-bred, polite,Credit thy calling. See! how mean, how low,The bookless sauntering youth, proud of the scutThat dignifies his cap, his flourished belt,And rusty couples jingling by his side.Be thou of other mould; and know that suchTransporting pleasures were by Heaven ordainedWisdom's relief, and Virtue's great reward._400
* * * * *
Of the power of instinct in brutes.—Two remarkable instances in the hunting of the roebuck, and in the hare going to seat in the morning.—Of the variety of seats or forms of the hare, according to the change of the season, weather, or wind.—Description of the hare-hunting in all its parts, interspersed with rules to be observed by those who follow that chase.—Transition to the Asiatic way of hunting, particularly the magnificent manner of the Great Mogul, and other Tartarian princes, taken from Monsieur Bernier, and the history of Gengiskan the Great.—Concludes with a short reproof of tyrants and oppressors of mankind.
Nor will it less delight the attentive sageTo observe that instinct, which unerring guidesThe brutal race, which mimics reason's loreAnd oft transcends: heaven-taught, the roe-buck swiftLoiters at ease before the driving packAnd mocks their vain pursuit, nor far he fliesBut checks his ardour, till the steaming scentThat freshens on the blade, provokes their rage.Urged to their speed, his weak deluded foes
Soon flag fatigued; strained to excess each nerve,_10Each slackened sinew fails; they pant, they foam;Then o'er the lawn he bounds, o'er the high hillsStretches secure, and leaves the scattered crowdTo puzzle in the distant vale below.'Tis instinct that directs the jealous hareTo choose her soft abode: with step reversedShe forms the doubling maze; then, ere the mornPeeps through the clouds, leaps to her close recess.As wand'ring shepherds on the Arabian plains
No settled residence observe, but shift_20Their moving camp, now, on some cooler hillWith cedars crowned, court the refreshing breeze;And then, below, where trickling streams distilFrom some penurious source, their thirst allay,And feed their fainting flocks: so the wise haresOft quit their seats, lest some more curious eyeShould mark their haunts, and by dark treacherous wilesPlot their destruction; or perchance in hopes
Of plenteous forage, near the ranker mead,Or matted blade, wary, and close they sit._30When spring shines forth, season of love and joy,In the moist marsh, 'mong beds of rushes hid,They cool their boiling blood: when Summer sunsBake the cleft earth, to thick wide-waving fieldsOf corn full-grown, they lead their helpless young:But when autumnal torrents, and fierce rainsDeluge the vale, in the dry crumbling bankTheir forms they delve, and cautiously avoid
The dripping covert: yet when Winter's coldTheir limbs benumbs, thither with speed returned_40In the long grass they skulk, or shrinking creepAmong the withered leaves, thus changing still,As fancy prompts them, or as food invites.But every season carefully observed,The inconstant winds, the fickle element,The wise experienced huntsman soon may findHis subtle, various game, nor waste in vainHis tedious hours, till his impatient houndsWith disappointment vexed, each springing larkBabbling pursue, far scattered o'er the fields._50Now golden Autumn from her open lapHer fragrant bounties showers; the fields are shorn;Inwardly smiling, the proud farmer viewsThe rising pyramids that grace his yard,And counts his large increase; his barns are stored,And groaning staddles bend beneath their load.All now is free as air, and the gay packIn the rough bristly stubbles range unblamed;No widow's tears o'erflow, no secret curseSwells in the farmer's breast, which his pale lips_60Trembling conceal, by his fierce landlord awed:But courteous now he levels every fence,Joins in the common cry, and halloos loud,Charmed with the rattling thunder of the field.Oh bear me, some kind Power invisible!To that extended lawn, where the gay courtView the swift racers, stretching to the goal;Games more renowned, and a far nobler train,Than proud Elean fields could boast of old.Oh! were a Theban lyre not wanting here,_70And Pindar's voice, to do their merit right!Or to those spacious plains, where the strained eyeIn the wide prospect lost, beholds at lastSarum's proud spire, that o'er the hills ascends,And pierces through the clouds. Or to thy downs,Fair Cotswold, where the well-breathed beagle climbs,With matchless speed, thy green aspiring brow,
And leaves the lagging multitude behind.Hail, gentle Dawn! mild blushing goddess, hail!Rejoiced I see thy purple mantle spread_80O'er half the skies, gems pave thy radiant way,And orient pearls from every shrub depend.Farewell, Cleora; here deep sunk in downSlumber secure, with happy dreams amused,Till grateful steams shall tempt thee to receiveThy early meal, or thy officious maids,The toilet placed, shall urge thee to performThe important work. Me other joys invite,The horn sonorous calls, the pack awakedTheir matins chant, nor brook my long delay._90My courser hears their voice; see there with earsAnd tail erect, neighing he paws the ground;Fierce rapture kindles in his reddening eyes,And boils in every vein. As captive boysCowed by the ruling rod, and haughty frownsOf pedagogues severe, from their hard tasks,If once dismissed, no limits can containThe tumult raised within their little breasts,But give a loose to all their frolic play:
So from their kennel rush the joyous pack;_100A thousand wanton gaieties expressTheir inward ecstasy, their pleasing sportOnce more indulged, and liberty restored.The rising sun that o'er the horizon peeps,As many colours from their glossy skinsBeaming reflects, as paint the various bowWhen April showers descend. Delightful scene!Where all around is gay, men, horses, dogs,And in each smiling countenance appearsFresh-blooming health, and universal joy._110Huntsman, lead on! behind the clustering packSubmiss attend, hear with respect thy whipLoud-clanging, and thy harsher voice obey:
Spare not the straggling cur, that wildly roves;But let thy brisk assistant on his backImprint thy just resentments; let each lashBite to the quick, till howling he returnAnd whining creep amid the trembling crowd.Here on this verdant spot, where nature kind,With double blessings crowns the farmer's hopes;_120Where flowers autumnal spring, and the rank meadAffords the wandering hares a rich repast,Throw off thy ready pack. See, where they spreadAnd range around, and dash the glittering dew.If some stanch hound, with his authentic voice,Avow the recent trail, the jostling tribeAttend his call, then with one mutual cryThe welcome news confirm, and echoing hillsRepeat the pleasing tale. See how they thread
The brakes, and up yon furrow drive along!_130But quick they back recoil, and wisely checkTheir eager haste; then o'er the fallowed groundHow leisurely they work, and many a pauseThe harmonious concert breaks; till more assuredWith joy redoubled the low valleys ring.What artful labyrinths perplex their way!Ah! there she lies; how close! she pants, she doubtsIf now she lives; she trembles as she sits,With horror seized. The withered grass that clingsAround her head, of the same russet hue_140Almost deceived my sight, had not her eyesWith life full-beaming her vain wiles betrayed.At distance draw thy pack, let all be hushed,No clamour loud, no frantic joy be heard,Lest the wild hound run gadding o'er the plainUntractable, nor hear thy chiding voice.Now gently put her off; see how directTo her known mews she flies! Here, huntsman, bring(But without hurry) all thy jolly hounds,
And calmly lay them in. How low they stoop,_150And seem to plough the ground! then all at onceWith greedy nostrils snuff the fuming steamThat glads their fluttering hearts. As winds let looseFrom the dark caverns of the blustering god,They burst away, and sweep the dewy lawn.Hope gives them wings while she's spurred on by fear.The welkin rings; men, dogs, hills, rocks, and woodsIn the full concert join. Now, my brave youths,Stripped for the chase, give all your souls to joy!
See how their coursers, than the mountain roe_160More fleet, the verdant carpet skim, thick cloudsSnorting they breathe, their shining hoofs scarce printThe grass unbruised; with emulation firedThey strain to lead the field, top the barred gate,O'er the deep ditch exulting bound, and brushThe thorny-twining hedge: the riders bendO'er their arched necks; with steady hands, by turnsIndulge their speed, or moderate their rage.
Where are their sorrows, disappointments, wrongs,Vexations, sickness, cares? All, all are gone,_170And with the panting winds lag far behind.Huntsman! her gait observe, if in wide ringsShe wheel her mazy way, in the same roundPersisting still, she'll foil the beaten track.But if she fly, and with the favouring windUrge her bold course; less intricate thy task:Push on thy pack. Like some poor exiled wretchThe frighted chase leaves her late dear abodes,O'er plains remote she stretches far away,Ah! never to return! for greedy Death_180Hovering exults, secure to seize his prey.Hark! from yon covert, where those towering oaksAbove the humble copse aspiring rise,What glorious triumphs burst in every galeUpon our ravished ears! The hunters shout,The clanging horns swell their sweet-winding notes,The pack wide-opening load the trembling airWith various melody; from tree to tree
The propagated cry redoubling bounds,And winged zephyrs waft the floating joy_190Through all the regions near: afflictive birchNo more the school-boy dreads, his prison broke,Scampering he flies, nor heeds his master's call;The weary traveller forgets his road,And climbs the adjacent hill; the ploughman leavesThe unfinished furrow; nor his bleating flocksAre now the shepherd's joy; men, boys, and girlsDesert the unpeopled village; and wild crowdsSpread o'er the plain, by the sweet frenzy seized.Look, how she pants! and o'er yon opening glade_200Slips glancing by; while, at the further end,The puzzling pack unravel wile by wile,Maze within maze. The covert's utmost boundSlily she skirts; behind them cautious creeps,And in that very track, so lately stainedBy all the steaming crowd, seems to pursueThe foe she flies. Let cavillers denyThat brutes have reason; sure 'tis something more,'Tis Heaven directs, and stratagems inspires,Beyond the short extent of human thought._210But hold—I see her from the covert break;Sad on yon little eminence she sits;Intent she listens with one ear erect,Pond'ring, and doubtful what new course to take,And how to escape the fierce blood-thirsty crew,That still urge on, and still in vollies loud,Insult her woes, and mock her sore distress.As now in louder peals, the loaded windsBring on the gathering storm, her fears prevail;And o'er the plain, and o'er the mountain's ridge,_220Away she flies; nor ships with wind and tide,And all their canvas wings, scud half so fast.Once more, ye jovial train, your courage try,And each clean courser's speed. We scour along,In pleasing hurry and confusion tossed;Oblivion to be wished. The patient packHang on the scent unwearied, up they climb,And ardent we pursue; our labouring steedsWe press, we gore; till once the summit gained,Painfully panting, there we breathe a while;_230Then like a foaming torrent, pouring downPrecipitant, we smoke along the vale.Happy the man, who with unrivalled speedCan pass his fellows, and with pleasure viewThe struggling pack; how in the rapid courseAlternate they preside, and jostling pushTo guide the dubious scent; how giddy youthOft babbling errs, by wiser age reproved;How, niggard of his strength, the wise old houndHangs in the rear, till some important point_240Rouse all his diligence, or till the chaseSinking he finds; then to the head he springs,With thirst of glory fired, and wins the prize.Huntsman, take heed; they stop in full career.Yon crowding flocks, that at a distance graze,Have haply soiled the turf. See! that old hound,How busily he works, but dares not trustHis doubtful sense; draw yet a wider ring.Hark! now again the chorus fills; as bellsSilenced a while at once their peal renew,_250And high in air the tuneful thunder rolls.See, how they toss, with animated rageRecovering all they lost!—That eager hasteSome doubling wile foreshews.—Ah! yet once moreThey're checked—hold back with speed—on either handThey nourish round—even yet persist—'Tis right,Away they spring; the rustling stubbles bendBeneath the driving storm. Now the poor chaseBegins to flag, to her last shifts reduced.From brake to brake she flies, and visits all_260Her well-known haunts, where once she ranged secure,With love and plenty bless'd. See! there she goes,She reels along, and by her gait betraysHer inward weakness. See, how black she looks!The sweat that clogs the obstructed pores, scarce leavesA languid scent. And now in open viewSee, see, she flies! each eager hound exertsHis utmost speed, and stretches every nerve.How quick she turns! their gaping jaws eludes,And yet a moment lives; till round inclosed_270By all the greedy pack, with infant screamsShe yields her breath, and there reluctant dies.So when the furious Bacchanals assailedThracian Orpheus, poor ill-fated bard!Loud was the cry; hills, woods, and Hebrus' banks,Returned their clamorous rage; distressed he flies,Shifting from place to place, but flies in vain;For eager they pursue, till panting, faint,By noisy multitudes o'erpowered, he sinks,To the relentless crowd a bleeding prey._280The huntsman now, a deep incision made,Shakes out with hands impure, and dashes downHer reeking entrails, and yet quivering heart.These claim the pack, the bloody perquisiteFor all their toils. Stretched on the ground she lies,A mangled corse; in her dim glaring eyesCold death exults, and stiffens every limb.Awed by the threatening whip, the furious houndsAround her bay; or at their master's foot,Each happy favourite courts his kind applause,_290With humble adulation cowering low.All now is joy. With cheeks full-blown they windHer solemn dirge, while the loud-opening packThe concert swell, and hills and dales returnThe sadly-pleasing sounds. Thus the poor hare,A puny, dastard animal, but versedIn subtle wiles, diverts the youthful train.But if thy proud, aspiring soul disdainsSo mean a prey, delighted with the pomp,Magnificence and grandeur of the chase;_300Hear what the Muse from faithful records sings.Why on the banks of Gemna, Indian stream,Line within line, rise the pavilions proud,Their silken streamers waving in the wind?Why neighs the warrior horse? from tent to tent,Why press in crowds the buzzing multitude?Why shines the polished helm, and pointed lance,This way and that far-beaming o'er the plain?Nor Visapour nor Golconda rebel;Nor the great Sophy, with his numerous host_310Lays waste the provinces; nor glory firesTo rob, and to destroy, beneath the nameAnd specious guise of war. A nobler causeCalls Aurengzebe[7] to arms. No cities sacked,No mother's tears, no helpless orphan's cries,No violated leagues, with sharp remorseShall sting the conscious victor: but mankindShall hail him good and just. For 'tis on beastsHe draws his vengeful sword; on beasts of preyFull-fed with human gore. See, see, he comes!_320Imperial Delhi opening wide her gates,Pours out her thronging legions, bright in arms,And all the pomp of war. Before them soundClarions and trumpets, breathing martial airs,And bold defiance. High upon his throne,Borne on the back of his proud elephant,Sits the great chief of Tamur's glorious race:Sublime he sits, amid the radiant blazeOf gems and gold. Omrahs about him crowd,And rein the Arabian steed, and watch his nod:_330And potent Rajahs, who themselves presideO'er realms of wide extent; but here submissTheir homage pay, alternate kings and slaves.Next these, with prying eunuchs girt around,The fair sultanas of his court; a troopOf chosen beauties, but with care concealedFrom each intrusive eye; one look is death.A cruel Eastern law! (had kings a powerBut equal to their wild tyrannic will)To rob us of the sun's all-cheering ray,_340Were less severe. The vulgar close the march,Slaves and artificers; and Delhi mournsHer empty and depopulated streets.Now at the camp arrived, with stern review,Through groves of spears, from file to file he dartsHis sharp experienced eye; their order marks,Each in his station ranged, exact and firm,Till in the boundless line his sight is lost.Not greater multitudes in arms appeared,On these extended plains, when Ammon's[8] son_350With mighty Porus in dread battle joined,The vassal world the prize. Nor was that hostMore numerous of old, which the great kingPoured out on Greece from all the unpeopled East;That bridged the Hellespont from shore to shore,And drank the rivers dry. Meanwhile in troopsThe busy hunter-train mark out the ground,A wide circumference; full many a leagueIn compass round; woods, rivers, hills, and plains,Large provinces; enough to gratify_360Ambition's highest aim, could reason boundMan's erring will. Now sit in close divanThe mighty chiefs of this prodigious host.He from the throne high-eminent presides,Gives out his mandates proud, laws of the chase,From ancient records drawn. With reverence low,And prostrate at his feet, the chiefs receiveHis irreversible decrees, from whichTo vary is to die. Then his brave bandsEach to his station leads; encamping round,_370Till the wide circle is completely formed;Where decent order reigns, what these command,Those execute with speed, and punctual care;In all the strictest discipline of war:As if some watchful foe, with bold insultHung lowering o'er their camp. The high resolve,That flies on wings, through all the encircling line,Each motion steers, and animates the whole.So by the sun's attractive power controlled,The planets in their spheres roll round his orb,_380On all he shines, and rules the great machine.Ere yet the morn dispels the fleeting mists,The signal given by the loud trumpet's voice,Now high in air the imperial standard waves,Emblazoned rich with gold, and glittering gems;And like a sheet of fire, through the dun gloomStreaming meteorous. The soldiers' shouts,And all the brazen instuments of war,With mutual clamor, and united din,Fill the large concave. While from camp to camp,_390They catch the varied sounds, floating in air,Round all the wide circumference, tigers fellShrink at the noise; deep in his gloomy denThe lion starts, and morsels yet unchewedDrop from his trembling jaws. Now all at onceOnward they march embattled, to the soundOf martial harmony; fifes, cornets, drums,That rouse the sleepy soul to arms, and boldHeroic deeds. In parties here and thereDetached o'er hill and dale, the hunters range_400Inquisitive; strong dogs that match in fightThe boldest brute, around their masters wait,A faithful guard. No haunt unsearched, they driveFrom every covert, and from every den,The lurking savages. Incessant shoutsRe-echo through the woods, and kindling firesGleam from the mountain tops; the forest seemsOne mingling blaze: like flocks of sheep they flyBefore the flaming brand: fierce lions, pards,Boars, tigers, bears, and wolves; a dreadful crew_410Of grim blood-thirsty foes: growling along,They stalk indignant; but fierce vengeance stillHangs pealing on their rear, and pointed spearsPresent immediate death. Soon as the nightWrapt in her sable veil forbids the chase,They pitch their tents, in even ranks aroundThe circling camp. The guards are placed, and firesAt proper distances ascending rise,And paint the horizon with their ruddy light.So round some island's shore of large extent,_420Amid the gloomy horrors of the night,The billows breaking on the pointed rocks,Seem all one flame, and the bright circuit wideAppears a bulwark of surrounding fire.What dreadful bowlings, and what hideous roar,Disturb those peaceful shades where erst the birdThat glads the night, had cheered the listening grovesWith sweet complainings! Through the silent gloomOft they the guards assail; as oft repelledThey fly reluctant, with hot-boiling rage_430Stung to the quick, and mad with wild despair.Thus day by day, they still the chase renew;At night encamp; till now in straiter boundsThe circle lessens, and the beasts perceiveThe wall that hems them in on every side.And now their fury bursts, and knows no mean;From man they turn, and point their ill-judged rageAgainst their fellow brutes. With teeth and clawsThe civil war begins; grappling they tear.Lions on tigers prey, and bears on wolves:_440Horrible discord! till the crowd behindShouting pursue, and part the bloody fray.At once their wrath subsides; tame as the lambThe lion hangs his head, the furious pard,Cowed and subdued, flies from the face of man,Nor bears one glance of his commanding eye.So abject is a tyrant in distress!At last within the narrow plain confined,A listed field, marked out for bloody deeds,An amphitheatre more glorious far_450Than ancient Rome could boast, they crowd in heaps,Dismayed, and quite appalled. In meet arraySheathed in refulgent arms, a noble bandAdvance; great lords of high imperial blood,Early resolved to assert their royal race,And prove by glorious deeds their valour's growthMature, ere yet the callow down has spreadIts curling shade. On bold Arabian steedsWith decent pride they sit, that fearless hearThe lion's dreadful roar; and down the rock_460Swift-shooting plunge, or o'er the mountain's ridgeStretching along, the greedy tiger leavePanting behind. On foot their faithful slavesWith javelins armed attend; each watchful eyeFixed on his youthful care, for him aloneHe fears, and to redeem his life, unmovedWould lose his own. The mighty Aurengzebe,From his high-elevated throne, beholdsHis blooming race; revolving in his mindWhat once he was, in his gay spring of life,_470When vigour strung his nerves. Parental joyMelts in his eyes, and flushes in his cheeks.Now the loud trumpet sounds a charge. The shoutsOf eager hosts, through all the circling line,And the wild bowlings of the beasts withinRend wide the welkin, flights of arrows, wingedWith death, and javelins launched from every arm,Gall sore the brutal bands, with many a woundGored through and through. Despair at last prevails,When fainting nature shrinks, and rouses all_480Their drooping courage. Swelled with furious rage,Their eyes dart fire; and on the youthful bandThey rush implacable. They their broad shieldsQuick interpose; on each devoted headTheir flaming falchions, as the bolts of Jove,Descend unerring. Prostrate on the groundThe grinning monsters lie, and their foul goreDefiles the verdant plain. Nor idle standThe trusty slaves; with pointed spears they pierceThrough their tough hides; or at their gaping mouths_490An easier passage find. The king of brutesIn broken roarings breathes his last; the bearGrumbles in death; nor can his spotted skin,Though sleek it shine, with varied beauties gay,Save the proud pard from unrelenting fate.The battle bleeds, grim Slaughter strides along,Glutting her greedy jaws, grins o'er her prey.Men, horses, dogs, fierce beasts of every kind,A strange promiscuous carnage, drenched in blood,And heaps on heaps amassed. What yet remain_500Alive, with vain assault contend to breakThe impenetrable line. Others, whom fearInspires with self-preserving wiles, beneathThe bodies of the slain for shelter creep.Aghast they fly, or hide their heads dispersed.And now perchance (had Heaven but pleased) the workOf death had been complete; and AurengzebeBy one dread frown extinguished half their race.When lo! the bright sultanas of his courtAppear, and to his ravished eyes display_510Those charms, but rarely to the day revealed.Lowly they bend, and humbly sue, to saveThe vanquished host. What mortal can denyWhen suppliant beauty begs? At his commandOpening to right and left, the well-trained troopsLeave a large void for their retreating foes.Away they fly, on wings of fear upborne,To seek on distant hills their late abodes.Ye proud oppressors, whose vain hearts exultIn wantonness of power, 'gainst the brute race,_520Fierce robbers like yourselves, a guiltless warWage uncontrolled: here quench your thirst of blood:But learn from Aurengzebe to spare mankind.