Pent in the close of some strong period stands
The victim's blasted name: The kindred note
First stamps it on the ear; then oft recalls
To memory, what were better wrapt at once
In dark oblivion. Still unrivall'd here
POPE thro' his rich dominion reigns alone:
POPE, whose immortal strains Thames echoes yet
Thro' all his winding banks. He smooth'd the verse,
Tun'd its soft cadence to the classic ear,

And gave to rhyme the dignity of song*!

+ As when the chearful bells some wake proclaim, The village maid loads not her head with gems, Ruby, or diamond, but from every field Culls daffodils, and harebells, sprent with dew, Her loveliest ornaments, in humble style Let Pastoral appear. Let rhyme supply The majesty of nobler sentiment,

7

Which ill might suit the peasant. GAY felt this;
And banish'd from his woods Arcadian swains,
And mark'd the manners of the British hind,
And uncouth dialect. He too could veil.
In fable's mystic garb the form of truth;
And by his sprightly tale could often draw

* It is not a little strange that Dr. Roberts should have wholly forgotten Dryden!! EDITOR.

Telle qu' une bergère, au plus beau jour de fête,

De superbes rubis ne charge point sa tête,

Et sans mêler à l'or l'éclat des diaman's,

Cueille en un champ voisin ses plus beaux ornemens:
Telle, aimable en son air, mais humble dans son style,
Doit éclater sans pompe une élégante Idylle,
Son ton simple & naïf n'a rien de fastueux,
Et n'aime point l'orgueil d'un vers présomptueux.
Il faut que fa douceur flatte chatouille, éveille,
Et jamais de grands mots n'épouvante l'oreille.

BOILEAU. L'ART. PORTIQUE CHANT IL,

The tear of laughter even from the dim eye
Of churlish gravity. Nor be forgot

The grotesque mirth of BUTLER's errant Knight,
Nor SWIFT, strange child of fancy and of spleen,
Nor he, whose labour'd line flows smoothly on,
The gallant, easy PRIOR. Subjects light,
Swoln by heroic phrase, like some poor slave,
Who, rob'd in royal mantle, struts his hour,
Betray their base original the more.

Pardon, my ANSTEY, that I name thee last,
Tho' last not least in fame. For thee the Muse
Reserv'd a secret spot, unknown before,

And smiled, and bade thee fix thy banner there,
As erst Columbus on his new-found world
Display'd the Iberian ensign. Graceful sit
Thy golden chains, and easy flows the rhyme
Spontaneous. While old Bladud's sceptre guards
His medicinal stream, shall Simkin raise

Loud peals of merriment. Thou too canst soar
To nobler heights, and deck the fragrant earth
"Where generous Russel lies." With thee, my friend,
Oft have I stray'd' from morn to latest eve,

And stolen from balmy sleep the midnight hour
To court the Latian Muse. The other cares.
Tore me from that sweet social intercourse,

I cannot but remember how I rov'd

By Camus, sedgy stream, and on the pipe,
The rustic pipe t, while yet it breath'd thy lips,
Essay'd alternate strains. Accept this verse,
Pledge of remembrance dear, and faithful love.

*This alludes to a Latin Translation of "Gray's Elegy in a Country Church Yard," written in conjunction with Mr. Anstey, and printed in 1762.

t

πνέει τὰ χέλια. Moscars.

THE HARE HUNTER.

A burlesque Imitation of various Parts of MILTON'S L'Allegro and Il Penseroso. Written in 1765.

BY F. N. C. MUNDAY, ESQ. ÓF MARKTON, DERBYSHIRE,

Lo I, who erst at break of day,
To Nelston Wiggs* betook my way,
Alarming all the country round

With barbarous shout, and babbling hound;
And many a fox in vain pursued

To Bardon Hill* or Button Wood *;
And oft returned in evening dark

With empty hands from Horseley Park *;
And thought myself a clever lad,

While all the neighbours deem'd me mad;
Now condescend with nicest care

To look the hedge-row for a hare.

Hence, Fox-Hunting! thou fiend forlorn,
Of Uproar wild, and Tumult born;
No more expect me on the hill,
Obedient to thy summons shrill,
Where late with joy I saw thee stand,
The whip new-corded in thine hand,
In boots thy legs entrenched strong,
Thy heels well-armed with rowels long,

Fox covers.

The cap close-fitted to thy head,
The blue plush-coat, the waistcoat red;
Thy person trim, succinct, and light,
Breeches'd high, in buckskin tight;
Mounted on a courser fleet,

With ardent eyes, and pawing feet.
Hence with thy tall tail-curling hound,
Of tongue so shrill, and ears so round.
No more I listen to the noise

Of "wind him rogues," and "to him boys,”
The "touch," the "drag," and "Tallihoe,"
And "
gone away," and "there they go;"
And how we earth'd him at Crick Chace,
Or lost him at some cursed place;
From all such ills that did attend us,
Henceforth, good Jupiter, defend us!
But come thou Genius of "Loo Whore,”
Sober, stedfast, and demure,

Clad in a coat of clumsy size,

Of double drab, or knotted frize,

O'er which is drawn the warm surtout,
With flourish'd girdle bound about,
Thy vacant forehead broad and fat,
Shadow'd beneath the round-cropp'd hat.
Sweet power of Thistle-whipping, hail!
Whom in a solitary vale

To prone-eyed Dullness long of yore
The moping Nymph Tantarra bore;
He half awake one misty morn
Tickled her scut beneath a thorn.
Come, but keep your wonted state
On a horse of sluggish gait,

Your looks commercing with the ground,
Where the close-couching hare is found:

And as across the lands you creep,
Forget yourself, and fall asleep:
Till the dull steed shall break your nap,
Stumbling thro' th' accustom'd gap.
And first the waddling beagle bring,
That looks as just escap'd the string,
With sneaking tail and heavy head,
Such as by neighbour Dash are bred.
And join sharp Cold, with Ache severe,
And Patience, that can bear to hear
The pack with melancholy tone
Around the scented hillock moan,
And with such discord as they keep,
Tempt pitying travellers to weep.
Me, Genius, shalt thou often find
On some hill side beneath the wind,
On fallows rough, or stubbles dry,
Where the lone leveret loves to lie,
While such mean merriment invites,
Doing thy sadly-pleasing rites.
Oft on a plat of rising ground,
I see the fat pack puzzling round,
Where the game went long before,
Sounding sad with sullen roar;

With slow-pac'd heed, and tedious cunning
Thro' all her artful mazes running,

Untwisting every knotty wile

Both of the double and the foil,

In notes with many a winding bout
Of drowsy murmurings long drawn out,
Bewailing their dull master's folly,
Most pitiful, most melancholy.
But chiefly let the Southern's tongue
Drag its deep dismal tone along,