HUNTING-SONG.
BEHOLD, my friend, the rofy-finger'd Morn,
With blushes on her face,
Peeps o'er yon azure hill;
Rich gems the trees enchase,
Pearls from each bush distil,
Arife, arife, and hail the light new-born.
Hark! hark! the merry horn calls, come away:
Quit, quit thy downy bed;
Break from Amynta's arms;
Oh! let it ne'er be faid,
That all, that all her charms,
Though the 's as Venus fair, can tempt thy stay.
Perplex thy foul no more with cares below,
For what will pelf avail?
Thy courfer paws the ground,
Each beagle cocks his tail,
They spend their mouths around,
While health, and pleasure, fmiles on every brow.
Try, huntfmen, all the brakes, fpread all the plain,
Now, now, fhe 's gone away,
Strip, ftrip, with speed purfue;
Who fain our sport would view,
See, fee, he flogs his fiery steeds in vain.
Pour down, like a flood from the hills, brave boys,
Catch each flying found, and double our joys.
Ye rocks, woods, and caves, our mufick repeat: The bright fpheres thus above,
A gay refulgent train,
Harmoniously move
O'er yon celestial plain
Like us whirl along, in concert fo fweet.
Now Pufs threads the brakes, and heavily flies,
At the head of the pack
Old Fidler bears the bell,
Every foil he hunts back,
And aloud rings her knell,
Till, forc'd into view, fhe pants, and she dies.
In life's dull round thus we toil, and we sweat ;
Diseases, grief, and pain,
An implacable crew,
While we double in vain,
Unrelenting purfue,
Till, quite hunted down, we yield with regret..
This moment is ours, come live while ye may,.
What 's decreed by dark fate
Is not in our own power,
Since to-morrow 's too late,
Take the present kind hour:
With wine chear the night, as sports bless the day.
A TRANSLATION of HORACE, Ep. x. Horace recommends a Country Life, and diffuadesh Friend from Ambition and Avarice.
EALTH to my friend loft in the fmoky town,
From him who breathes in country air alone, In all things elfe thy foul and mine are one;
And like two aged long acquainted doves,
The fame our mutual hate, the same our mutual loves,
Clofe, and fecure, you keep your lazy neft,
My wandering thoughts won't let my pinions reft:
O'er rocks, feas, woods, I take my wanton flight,
And each new object charms with new delight.
To fay no more, my friend, I live, and reign,
Lord of myself; I've broke the servile chain,
Shook off with fcorn the trifles you defire,
All the vain empty nothings fops admire.
Thus the lean flave of fome fat pamper'd priest
With greedy eyes at firft views each luxurious feast;
But, quickly cloy'd, now he no more can eat
Their godly viands, and their holy meat:
Wifely ambitious to be free and poor,
Longs for the homely fcraps he loath'd before.
Seek'st thou a place where nature is obferv'd,
And cooler reafon may be mildly heard;
To rural fhades let thy calm foul retreat,
Thefe are th' Elyfian fields, this is the happy feat,
Proof against winter's cold, and fummer's heat.
Here no invidious care thy peace annoys,
Sleep undisturb'd, uninterrupted joys;
Your marble pavements with difgrace muft yield
To each fmooth plain, and gay enamel'd field:
Your muddy aquæducts can ne'er compare
With country streams, more pure than city air;
Our yew and bays inclos'd in pots ye prize,
And mimic little beauties we despise.
The rose and woodbine marble walls fupport,
Holly and ivy deck the gaudy court:
But yet in vain all shifts the artift tries,
The difcontented twig but pines away and dies.
The houfe ye praife that a large profpect yields,
And view with longing eyes the pleasure of the fields;
'Tis thus ye own, thus tacitly confefs,
Th' inimitable charms the peaceful country bless.
In vain from nature's rules we blindly ftray,
And pufh th' uneafy monitrix away:
Still fhe returns, nor lets our confcience reft,
But night and day inculcates what is best,
Our trueft friend, though an unwelcome guest.
As foon th' unfkilful fool that 's blind enough,
To call rich Indian damask Norwich stuff,
Shall become rich by trade; as he be wife,
Whose partial foul and undiscerning eyes
Can't at firft fight, and at each tranfient view,
Diftinguish good from bad, or falfe from true.
He that too high exalts his giddy head
When Fortune fmiles, if the jilt frowns, is dead:
Th' afpiring fool, big with his haughty boaft,
Is the most abject wretch when all his hopes are loft.
Sit loose to all the world, nor aught admire,
These worthless toys too fondly we defire;
Since when the darling 's ravifh'd from our heart,
The pleasure 's over-balanc'd by the smart.
Confine thy thoughts, and bound thy loofe defires,
For thrifty nature no great coft requires :
A healthful body, and thy mistress kind,
An humble cot, and a more humble mind:
Thefe once enjoy'd, the world is all thy own,
From thy poor cell defpife the tottering throne,
And wakeful monarchs in a bed of down.
The stag well arm'd, and with unequal force,
From fruitful meadows chac'd the conquer'd horse;
The haughty beast that stomach'd the disgrace,
In meaner paftures not content to graze,
Receives the bit, and man's affiftance prays.
The conqueft gain'd, and many trophies won,
His falfe confederate ftill rode boldly on;
In vain the beast curs'd his perfidious aid,
He plung'd, he rear'd, but nothing could perfuade
The rider from his back, or bridle from his head.
Juft fo the wretch that greedily afpires,
Unable to content his wild defires;
Dreading the fatal thought of being poor,
Lofes a prize worth all his golden ore,
The happy freedom he enjoy'd before.
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