Now on firm land they range; then in the flood
They plunge tumultuous; or through reedy pools
Rustling they work their way: no holt escapes
Their curious search. With quick sensation now
The fuming vapour stings; flutter their hearts,
And joy redoubled bursts from every mouth
In louder symphonies. Yon hollow trunk,
That with its hoary head incurv'd salutes
The passing wave, must be the tyrant's fort,
And dread abode. How these impatient climb,
While others at the root incessant bay :

They put him down. See, there he dives along!
The' ascending bubbles mark his gloomy way:
Quick fix the nets, and cut off his retreat
Into the sheltering deeps. Ah, there he vents!
The pack lunge headlong, and protended spears
Menace destruction: while the troubled surge
Indignant foams, and all the scaly kind

Affrighted, hide their heads. Wild tumult reigns,
And loud uproar. Ah, there once more he vents!
See, that bold hound has seiz'd him; down they sink,
Together lost: but soon shall he repent
His rash assault. See, there escap'd, he flies
Half-drown'd, and clambers up the slippery bank
With ooze and blood distain'd. Of all the brutes,
Whether by Nature form'd, or by long use,
This artful diver best can bear the want
Of vital air. Unequal is the fight,

Beneath the whelming element. Yet there
He lives not long; but respiration needs
At proper intervals. Again he vents!

Again the crowd attack. That spear has pierc'd
His neck;
the crimson waves confess the wound.
Fix'd is the bearded lance, unwelcome guest,

Where'er he flies; with him it sinks beneath,
With him it mounts; sure guide to every foe.
Inly he groans; nor can his tender wound

Bear the cold stream. Lo! to yon sedgy bank
He creeps disconsolate; his numerous foes

Surround him, hounds and men. Pierc'd through and through,

On pointed spears they lift him high in air;
Wriggling he hangs, and grins, and bites in vain :
Bid the loud horns, in gaily-warbling strains,
Proclaim the felon's fate; he dies, he dies.
Rejoice, ye scaly tribes, and leaping dance
Above the wave, in sign of liberty
Restor❜d; the cruel tyrant is no more.
Rejoice, secure and bless'd; did not as yet
Remain some of your own rapacious kind;
And man, fierce man, with all his various wiles.
O happy! if ye knew your happy state,
Ye rangers of the fields; whom Nature boon
Cheers with her smiles, and every element
Conspires to bless. What, if no heroes frown
From marble pedestals; nor Raphael's works,
Nor Titian's lively tints, adorn our walls:
Yet these the meanest of us may behold;
And at another's cost may feast at will

Our wondering eyes; what can the owner more?
But vain, alas! is wealth, not grac'd with pow'r.
The flowery landskip, and the gilded dome,
And vistas opening to the wearied eye,
Through all his wide domain; the planted grove,
The shrubby wilderness, with its gay choir
Of warbling birds, can't lull to soft repose
The' ambitious wretch, whose discontented soul
Is harrow'd day and night; he mourns, he pines,

Until his prince's favour makes him great.
See there he comes, the' exalted idol comes!
The circle's form'd, and all his fawning slaves
Devoutly bow to earth; from every mouth
The nauseous flattery flows, which he returns
With promises, that die as soon as born:
Vile intercourse! where virtue has no place.
Frown but the monarch; all his glories fade;
He mingles with the throng, outcast, undone,
The pageant of a day; without one friend
To sooth his tortur'd mind; all, all are fled.
For though they bask'd in his meridian ray,
The insects vanish, as his beams decline.

Not such our friends; for here no dark design,
No wicked interest bribes the venal heart;
But inclination to our bosom leads,

And weds them there for life; our social cups
Smile, as we smile; open, and unreserv'd.

We speak our inmost souls; good humour, mirth,
Soft complaisance, and wit from malice free,
Smooth every brow, and glow on every cheek.
O happiness sincere! what wretch would groan
Beneath the galling load of power, or walk
Upon the slippery pavements of the great,
Who thus could reign, unenvied and secure?

Ye guardian pow'rs who make mankind your care,
Give me to know wise Nature's hidden depths;
Trace each mysterious cause, with judgment read
The' expanded volume, and submiss adore
That great creative Will, who at a word
Spoke forth the wondrous scene. But if my soul
To this gross clay confin'd, flutters on earth
With less ambitious wing; unskill'd to range
From orb to orb, where Newton leads the way;

And view with piercing eyes the grand machine, Worlds above worlds; subservient to his voice, Who veil'd in clouded majesty, alone

Gives light to all; bids the great system move,
And changeful seasons in their turns advance,
Unmov'd, unchang'd, himself. Yet this at least
Grant me propitious, an inglorious life,

Calm and serene; nor lost in false pursuits
Of wealth or honours; but enough to raise
My drooping friends, preventing modest want
That dares not ask. And if to crown my joys,
Ye grant me health, that, ruddy in my cheeks,
Blooms in my life's decline; fields, woods, and
streams,

Each towering hill, each humble vale below,
Shall hear my cheering voice, my hounds shall wake
The lazy morn, and glad the' horizon round.

HOBBINOL,

OR

THE RURAL GAMES.

A BURLESQUE POEM.

DEDICATION TO

MR. HOGARTH.

PERMIT me, Sir to make choice of you for my Patron, being the greatest master in the burlesque way. In this indeed you have some advantage of your poetical brethren, that you paint to the eye; yet remember, Sir, that we give speech and motion, and a greater variety to our figures. Your province is the Town; leave me a small out-ride in the Country, and I shall be content. In this, at least, let us both agree, to make Vice and Folly the objects of our ridicule; and we cannot fail to be of some service to mankind.

I am, SIR,

your admirer, and

most humble servant,

W. S.