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Her aspect sour, and stern ungracious look,
With sudden damp the conscious vessel struck:
Chill'd at her touch, its mouth it slowly closed,
And in long silence all its griefs reposed :
Yet still low murmurs creep along the ground,
And the air vibrates with the silver sound.
Pompey in the Country to his Mistress in Town.
LIFE is cut into portions of good and of ill,
Of the first we but taste, of the last have our fill:
This, they tell us at least, is the fortune of man-
And dog-fortune too is on just the same plan.
His sweet little morsels poor Pompey has had,
And now he must gulp down abundance of bad !
- Yes, set is the sun of my prosperous and gay day,
When fed by the hand of a charming young lady;
Beloved by my mistress, by servants attended,
By comers and goers caress'd and befriended;
I sported with puss, or on warm mat reclined,
With great satisfaction of body and mind.
But now am I sentenced to live at a poor rate,
In the parsonage cabin of slovenly curate.
From a sprightly young puppy, brisk, courteous,
and witty, And, pray let me add too, remarkably pretty, By living with inmates as dull as a log, I am grown a coarse, glum, philosophical dog.
But had I not heard of a far higher sphere, Perhaps I might still have been satisfied here; Well pleased to frisk out with my black-coated
master, And, barking, invite him to trot along faster; Then, seizing his skirts when his great coat he
throws off, To show my affection by tearing his clothes off ; Or stretch'd on the hearth gnawing madam's old
shoe, Or slumbering as sweet as the cit in his pew.
But all these delights are grown trivial and poor, Since long-ear’d Miss Flora first yelp'd at the door: The elegant lady who usher'd her in Esteems her, they say, for her very fine skin; And has made her companion for dogs of high
station, By a very polite and complete education; Yet she deign’d to converse with so rustic a spark, And we had an intelligent tête-à-tête bark.
I find, at this season, to London's thick air All dogs of good breeding and fashion repair; There on sofas of satin delighted they lie, Or reposing on carpets of Persia's bright dye, Or, with ears all prick'd up, from proud sashes
behold Stars and garters roll by in their chariots of gold. But some of our race, with amazement I heard, Walk erect on two legs, and are highly preferr’d; When by foreign wig weavers their heads are
deck'd out, They're convey'd in sedans to the concert or rout, And learning to bark in a soft pretty way, Are admired by the fair and caress'd by the gay:
But sure, if my person as much was assisted,
My head as wellfrizz’d and my tail as well twisted,
In air and behaviour, at opera or ball,
Poor Pompey would shine smartest puppy of all!-
Ah, lady! you're gentle and kind beyond mea-
Then let me behold those dear regions of pleasure!
From valleys ignoble, that scarce have a name,
Let me fly where my talents may raise me to fame:
But ere I appear among ladies and beaux,
Send the tailor to make me a new suit of clothes.
If this my request your indulgence should meet, All the trophies I gain I will lay at your feet; And whether I growl, bark, or cringe into favour, You shall reap the best fruits of my alter'd beha
viour: In witness whereof, in the due form of law, I hereunto set both my seal and my paw.
POMPEY. (L. S.)
REV. S. HOOLE.
A BURLESQUE IMITATION OF VARIOUS PARTS OF
L'ALLEGRO AND IL 'PENSEROSO.
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 Horsely Park *;
• Fox covers.
And thought myself a clever Jad,
While all the neighbours thought 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 arm’d with rowels long,
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 Chase,
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 Whoore,' Sober, steadfast, 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 Dulness long of yore
The moping nymph Tantarra bore.
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 through the accustom'd gap.
And first the waddling beagle bring,
That looks as just escaped 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,
see the fat pack puzzling round,
Where the game went long before,
Sounding sad with sullen roar;