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Immense to name their lands, to mark their bounds,
And paint the thousand families of hounds :
First count the sands, the drops where oceans flow,
Or Gauls by Marlborough sent to shades below.
The task be mine, to teach Britannia's swains,
My much-lov'd country, and my native plains.

Such be the dog, I charge, thou mean'st to train,
His back is crooked, and his belly plain,
Of fillet stretch'd, and huge of haunch-behind,
A tapering tail, that nimbly cuts the wind;
Truss-thigh’d, straight-ham'd, and fox-like form'd his

paw,
Large.legd, dry fold, and of protended claw.
His flat, wide noftrils snuff the savory steam,
And from his eyes he shoots pernicious gleam;
Middling his head, and prone to earth his view,
With ears and chest that dash the morning dew :
He best to, stem the flood, to leap the bound,
And charm the Dryads with his voice profound;
To pay large tribute to his weary lord,
And crown the fylvan hero's plenteous board.

The matron bitch whose womb thall best produce
The hopes and fortune of th’illustrious house,
Deriv'd from noble, but from foreign feed,
For various nature loaths incestuous breed,
Is.like the fire throughout. Nor yet displease
Large flanks, and ribs, to give the teemer ease.

In Spring let loose thy pairs. Then all things prove
The stings of pleasure, and the pangs of love :
Æthereal Jove then glads, with genial showers,
Earth's mighty womb, and strews her lap with flowers.

Hence

5

Hence juices mount, and buds, embolden'd, try
More kindly breezes, and a softer sky :
Kind Venus revels. Hark! on every bough,
In lulling strains the feather'd warblers woo.
Fell tigers soften in th' infectious flames,
And lions, fawning, court their brinded dames :
Great Love pervades the deep; to please his mate,
The whale, in gambols, moves his monstrous weight,
Heav'd by his wayward mirth old Ocean roars,
And scatter'd navies bulge on diftant hores.

All Nature smiles ; come now, nor fear, my love,
To taste the odours of the woodbine grove,
To pass the evening glooms in harmless play,
And, sweetly swearing, languish life away.
An altar, bound with recent flowers, I rear
To thee, best season of the various year ;
All hail ! such days in beauteous order ran,
So swift, so sweet, when first the world began,
In Eden's bowers, when man’s great fire assign'd
The names and natures of the brutal kind.
Then lamb and lion friendly walk?d their round,
And hares, undaunted, lick'd the fondling hound;
Wondrous to tell ! but when, with luckless hand,
Our daring mother broke the folecommand,
Then want and envy brought their meagre train,
Then wrath came down, and death had leave to reign :
Hence foxes earth’d, and wolves abhor’d the day,
And hungry churls ensnar'd the nightly prey;
Rude arts at first; but witty want refind
The huntsman's wiles, and famine form'd the mind.

Bold

Bold Nimrod first the lion's trophies wore,
The panther bound, and lanc'd the bristling boar;
He taught to turn the hare, to bay the deer,
And wheel the courser in his mid career :
Ah! had he there restrain'd his tyrant hand!
Let me, ye powers, an humbler wreath demand.
No
pomps

I ask, which crowns and sceptres yield,
Nor dangerous laurels in the dusty field;
Fast by the forest, and the limpid spring,
Give me the warfare of the woods to sing,
To breed my whelps, and healthful press the game,
A mean, inglorious, but a guiltless name.

And now thy female bears in ample womb
The bane of hares, and triumphs yet to come.
No sport, I ween, nor blast of sprightly horn,
Should tempt me then to hurt the whelps unborn.
Unlock’d, in covers let her freely run,
To range thy courts, and bask before the sun;
Near thy full table let the favourite stand,
Strok'd by thy fon's, or blooming daughter's hand,
Caress, indulge, by arts the matron bribe,
T'improve her breed, and teem a vigorous tribe.

So, if small things may be compar'd with great,
And Nature's works the Muse's imitate,
So, stretch'd in shades, and lulld by murmuring

streams, Great Maro's breast receiv'd the heavenly dreams. Recluse, serene, the musing prophet lay, Till thoughts in embryo, ripening, burst their way. I

Hence

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Hence bees in state, and foaming coursers come,
Heroes, and gods, and walls of lofty Rome.

TO APOLLO MAKING LOVE.

FROM MONSIEUR FONTENELLE.

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I. I

AM, cry'd Apollo, when Daphne he wood,

And panting for breath, the coy virgin pursued,
When his wisdom, in manner most ample, exprest
The long list of the graces his godship posleft:

II.
I'm the god of fweet song, and inspirer of lays ;
Nor for lays, nor sweet song, the fair fugitive stays;
I'm the god of the harp-stop my faireft-in vain;
Nor the harp, nor the harper, could fetch her again.

III.
Every plant, every flower, and their virtues. I know,
God of light I'm above, and of physic below :
At the dreadful word physic, the nymph fled more falt ;
At the fatal word physic she doubled her hafte.

IV.
Thou fond god of wisdom, then, alter thy phrase,
Bid her view the young bloom, and thy ravishing rays,
Tell her less of thy knowledge, and more of thy charms,

life for 't, the damsel will fly to thy arms.

And, my

THE

Much

THE FATAL CURIOSITY.
TUCH had I heard of fair Francelia's name,

The lavish praises of the babler, Fame :
I thought them such, and went prepard to pry,
And trace the charmer, with a critic's eye,
Refoly'd to find fome fault, before unspy'd,
And disappointed, if but satisfy’d.

Love pierc'd the vassal heart, that durst rebel,
And, where a judge was meant, a victim fell :
On those dear eyes, with sweet perdition gay,
I gaz'd, at once, my pride and soul away;
All o'er I felt the luscious poison run,
And, in a look, the hasty conquest won.

Thus the fond moth around the taper plays,
And sports and flutters near the treacherous blaze;
Ravish'd with joy, he wings his eager flight,
Nor dreams of ruin in so clear a light;
He tempts his fate, and courts a glorious doom,
A bright destruction, and a shining tomb.

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TO A LADY;

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WITH A DESCRIPTION OF THE PHOENIX,

AVISH of wit, and bold, appear the lines,

Where Claudian's genius in the Phænix shines;
A thousand ways each brilliant point is turn'd,
And the gay poem, like its theme, adorn'd:
A tale more strange ne'er grac'd the poet's art,
Nor e'er did fiction play so wild a part.

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