To scenes Tartarean, see! the wretches hie,
Where, drench'd in vice, they rave-they rot-or die,

Heav'n how unlike the pure, the tranquil scene, Where rural mirth, and rural manners reign; Where simple cheer disclaims the cares of wealth, And fresh'ning gales diffuse the glow of health; Where undisturb'd, unenvy'd, unconfin'd, Calm Reason rules each moment of the mind; Where mock'd Ambition seeks her last retreat, And proves the world a bubble or a cheat.

Through clam'rous streets at length by caution led,
Lo! Alma Mater rears her reverend head,
Unfolds the portals of her awful courts,

Where, nurs'd by Science, future fame resorts-
Pleas'd we behold the bright'ning fuel blaze,
And hot repast that gives content and ease;
While keenest appetites a zest bestow,
Which listless luxury can never know;
The cloth remov'd, with blessing for our fare,
We next the jug of cordial punch prepare;
Or purple claret sparkling as we pour,
Nectareous juice! to chear the social hour,
When toil declining claims refreshment's smiles,
And mirthful innocence the time beguiles.

With conscious joy our nets we then review, And all the conquests of the day renew,

Boast of our skill, and palliate where it fails,
For e'en in trifles human pride prevails-
Not to ourselves the feather'd spoil confine,

But range them round for friendship's sacred shrine;
The rural bliss redoubles in our breast,

In pleasing others when ourselves ark blest :
Nor you, my Friends! disdain what you adore,
We gave with pleasure, and would give you more;
Our off'ring take, and as we wish survey

The grateful produce of a Winter's day.

1

EPISTLE X.

FROM THE HONORABLE

"CHARLES FOX,

Partridge-Shooting.

TO THE HONORABLE

JOHN TOWNSHEND,

Cruising.

BY RICHARD TICKELL, ESQ;

WHILE you, dear Townshend, o'er the billows ride,
Mulgrave in front, and Hanger by your side,
Me it delights the woods and wilds to court,
For rustic feats and unambitious sport.

At that dim hour when fading lamps expire, When the last, ling'ring, clubs to bed retire, I rise!-how should I then thy feelings shock, Unshav'd, unpowder'd, in my shooting frock! "What frock?" thou criest-I'll tell thee-the old brown;

Trimm'd to a jacket, with the skirts cut down

Thou laugh'st; I know, thou dost; but check that

sneer;

Epist. X.

EPISTLES DESCRIPTIVE, &c.

87

What tho' no fashion'd sportsman I appear,

Yet hence thy Charles's voice gains shriller force;
Ah! Jack, if Dunning shot, he'd not be hoarse.

Nor deem ev'n here the cares of state forgot,
I wad with gazettes ev'ry second shot:
Almon's bold sheets the intervals supply;
And still, methinks, his charges farthest fly.

Oft too, while all around my pointers stray,
With patriot names I cheer them on their way:
No servile ministerial runners they !

Not Ranger then, but Washington, I cry;
Hey on! Paul Jones, re-echoes to the sky :

Toho! old Franklin-Silas Deane, take heed!-
Cheer'd with the sound, o'er hills and dales they

speed:

Till one, to whose quick sense and practis❜d skill
His active followers yield a hasty will,

Touch'd by the scent the passing gales convey,
With startled vigilance presumes the prey :
The rest a disciplin'd subservience keep;
Dash where he runs, and as he crouches, creep:
At length the hostile league one point avow:
Now places, places! order, order, now!
"Bunb'ry! let me (I cry) for party's sake,

"Teach thee where best to aim, what ground to take."

And see, a young bird rises, weak and slow;

"At him, Sir Charles !"-He fires, and lays him low

Scar'd at the sound, up the full covey springs;
Richard at random fires, and only wings:

Not so thy Charles; intent with half-clos'd sight,
Cautious I watch their veteran leader's flight:
At him I aim, the covey's head and guide ;
I fire; but ah! too plainly on one side ;
Again I try, like rising to explain,

A double barrel's force, but try in vain ;
Against myself the heated tube recoils,
Nor gains one feather to requite my toils.

But if too soon the startled covey rise, And move a previous question in the skies,

My faithful groom quick marks them as they spring,
And counts their noses, undeceiv'd as Byng:
Whether in close array, and nemini con,

To their old beaten ground the covey's gone;
Or, scattering wild, in petty parties fall,
Some to pair off, and some to wait a call.

Thus from each kindred image, fancy draws
The latent emblem of a nobler cause.

If chance, a stray, lone, bird my course invites,
I think of Meredith, and proselytes;

Mean, mangled, game not for itself I prize;
Vengeance and Palliser to memory rise.