Part 11 (1/2)

”Next week, by----, (but 'tis a sin to swear) ”I give my word, sir, you shall have my mare; ”Sound wind and limb, as any ever was, ”And rising only seven years old next gra.s.s.

”Four miles an hour she goes, nor needs a spur; ”A pretty piece of flesh, upon my conscience, sir.”

This speech was B----t's; and, tho' mean in phrase, The nearest thing to prose, as Horace says, (Satire the fourth, and forty-second line) 'Twill intimate that I propose to dine Next week with B***. Muse, lend thine aid a while; For this great purpose claims a lofty style.

Ere yonder sun, now glorious in the west, Has thrice three times reclined on Thetis' breast; Ere thrice three times, from old t.i.thonus' bed, Her charms all glowing with celestial red, The balmy morn shall rise to mortal view, And from her bright locks shake the pearls of dew, These eyes, O B***, shall hail thy opening glades, These ears shall catch the music of thy shades; This cherished frame shall drink the gladsome gales, And the fresh fragrance of thy flowery vales.

And (for I know the Muse will come along) To B*** I mean to meditate a song: A song, adorned with every rural charm, Trim as thy garden, ample as thy farm, Sweet as thy milk, and brisk as bottled beer, Wholesome as mutton, and as water clear, In wildflowers fertile, as thy fields of corn, And frolicksome as lambs, or sheep new shorn.

I ask not ortolans, or Chian wine, The fat of rams, or quintessence of swine.

Her spicy stores let either India keep, Nor El Dorado vend her golden sheep.

And to the mansion house, or council hall, Still on her black splay feet may the huge tortoise crawl.

Not Parson's b.u.t.t my appet.i.te can move, Nor, Bell, thy beer; nor even thy nectar, Jove.

If B*** be happy, and in health, his guest, Whom wit and learning charm, can wish no better feast.

THE HARES, A FABLE.

Yes, yes, I grant the sons of earth Are doomed to trouble from their birth: We all of sorrow have our share; But say, Is your's without compare?

Look round the world; perhaps you'll find Each individual of our kind Pressed with an equal load of ill, Equal at least. Look further still, And own your lamentable case Is little short of happiness.

In yonder hut, that stands alone, Attend to Famine's feeble moan; Or view the couch where Sickness lies; Mark his pale cheek, and languid eyes, His frame by strong convulsion torn, His struggling sighs, and looks forlorn.

Or see, transfixed with keener pangs, Where o'er his h.o.a.rd the miser hangs; Whistles the wind; he starts, he stares, Nor Slumber's balmy blessing shares; Despair, Remorse, and Terror roll Their tempests on his hara.s.sed soul.

But here, perhaps, it may avail To enforce our reasoning with a tale.

Mild was the morn, the sky serene, The jolly hunting band convene; The beagle's breast with ardour burns; The bounding steed the champaign spurns; And fancy oft the game descries Through the hound's nose, and huntsman's eyes.

Just then, a council of the hares Had met, on national affairs.

The chiefs were set; while o'er their head The furze its frizzled covering spread.

Long lists of grievances were heard, And general discontent appeared.

”Our harmless race shall every savage, ”Both quadruped and biped, ravage?

”Shall horses, hounds, and hunters still ”Unite their wits to work us ill?

”The youth, his parent's sole delight, ”Whose tooth the dewy lawns invite, ”Whose pulse in every vein beats strong, ”Whose limbs leap light the vales along, ”May yet e'er noontide meet his death, ”And lie dismembered on the heath: ”For youth, alas! nor cautious age, ”Nor strength, nor speed, eludes their rage.

”In every field we meet the foe, ”Each gale comes fraught with sounds of woe: ”The morning but awakes our fears, ”The evening sees us bathed in tears.

”But must we ever idly grieve, ”Nor strive our fortunes to relieve?

”Small is each individual force, ”To stratagem be our recourse; ”And then, from all our tribes combined, ”The murderer to his cost may find, ”No foe is weak, whom Justice arms, ”Whom Concord leads, and Hatred warms.

”Be roused; or liberty acquire, ”Or in the great attempt expire.”-- He said no more, for in his breast Conflicting thoughts the voice suppressed: The fire of vengeance seemed to stream From his swoln eyeball's yellow gleam.

And now the tumults of the war, Mingling confusedly from afar, Swell in the wind. Now louder cries, Distinct, of hounds and men arise.

Forth from the brake, with beating heart, Th' a.s.sembled hares tumultuous start, And, every straining nerve on wing, Away precipitately spring.

The hunting band, a signal given, Thick thundering o'er the plain are driven; O'er cliff abrupt, and shrubby mound, And river broad, impetuous bound; Now plunge amid the forest shades, Glance through the openings of the glades; Now o'er the level valley sweep, Now with short steps strain up the steep, While backward from the hunter's eyes The landscape like a torrent flies.

At last an ancient wood they gained, By pruner's axe yet unprofaned.

High o'er the rest, by Nature reared, The oak's majestic boughs appeared; Beneath, a copse of various hue In barbarous luxuriance grew; No knife had curbed the rambling sprays, No hand had wove th' implicit maze.

The flowering thorn, self-taught to wind, The hazle's stubborn stem intwined, And bramble twigs were wreathed around, And rough furze crept along the ground.

Here sheltering, from the sons of murther, The hares drag their tired limbs no further.

But, lo! the western wind erelong Was loud, and roared the woods among: From rustling leaves, and cras.h.i.+ng boughs, The sound of woe and war arose.

The hares, distracted, scour the grove, As terror and amazement drove; But danger, wheresoe'er they fled, Still seemed impending o'er their head.

Now crowded in a grotto's gloom, All hope extinct, they wait their doom: Dire was the silence, till, at length, Even from despair deriving strength, With b.l.o.o.d.y eye, and furious look, A daring youth arose, and spoke.

”O wretched race, the scorn of Fate, ”Whom ills of every sort await!

”O, cursed with keenest sense to feel ”The sharpest sting of every ill!

”Say ye, who, fraught with mighty scheme, ”Of liberty and vengeance dream, ”What now remains? To what recess ”Shall we our weary steps address, ”Since Fate is evermore pursuing ”All ways and means to work our ruin?

”Are we alone, of all beneath, ”Condemned to misery worse than death!