Boast of our skill, and palliate where it fails,
For e'en in trifles human pride prevails-

Not to ourselves the feather'd spoil confine,
But range them round for friendship's sacred shrine;

The rural bliss redoubles in our breast,

In pleasing others when ourselves are blest :

Nor you, my Friends! disdain what you adore,
We gave with pleasure, and would give you more;

Our off'ring take, and as we wish survey

The grateful produce of a Winter's day.

WHILE you, dear Townshend, o'er the billows ride,
Mulgrave in front, and Hanger by your side,
Me it delights the woods and wilds to court,
For rustic feats and unambitious sport.

At that dim hour when fading lamps expire,
When the last, ling'ring, clubs to bed retire,
I rise! how should I then thy feelings shock,
Unshav'd, unpowder'd, in my shooting frock!
"What frock?" thou criest-I'll tell thee the old

brown;

Trimm'd to a jacket, with the skirts cut down-
Thou laugh'st; I know, thou dost; but check that

Epist. X. EPISTLES DESCRIPTIVE, &c.

What tho' no fashion'd sportsman I appear,
Yet hence thy Charles's voice gains shriller force;
Ah! Jack, if Dunning shot, he'd not be hoarse,

Nor deem ev'n here the cares of state forgot,
I wad with gazettes ev'ry second shot:
Almon's bold sheets the intervals supply;
And still, methinks, his charges farthest fly.

87

Oft too, while all around my pointers stray, With patriot names I cheer them on their way: No servile ministerial runners they! Not Ranger then, but Washington, I cry; Hey on! Paul Jones, re-echoes to the sky : Toho! old Franklin-Silas Deane, take heed!Cheer'd with the sound, o'er hills and dales they

speed:

Till one, to whose quick sense and practis'd skill
His active followers yield a hasty will,

1

Touch'd by the scent the passing gales convey,
With startled vigilance presumes the prey:
The rest a disciplin'd subservience keep;
Dash where he runs, and as he crouches, creep :
At length the hostile league one point avow:
Now places, places! order, order, now !
"Bunb'ry! let me (I cry) for party's sake,
"Teach thee where best to aim, what ground to

And see, a young bird rises, weak and slow; "At him, Sir Charles!"-He fires, and lays him

low

Scar'd at the sound, up the full covey springs;
Richard at random fires, and only wings:

Not so thy Charles; intent with half-clos'd sight,
Cautious I watch their veteran leader's flight :
At him I aim, the covey's head and guide;
I fire; but ah! too plainly on one side :
Again I try, like rising to explain,
A double barrel's force, but try in vain;
Against myself the heated tube recoils,
Nor gains one feather to requite my toils.

But if too soon the startled covey rise, And move a previous question in the skies, My faithful groom quick marks them as they spring, And counts their noses, undeceiv'd as Byng: Whether in close array, and nemini con, To their old beaten ground the covey's gone; Or, scattering wild, in petty parties fall, Some to pair off, and some to wait a call.

Thus from each kindred image, fancy draws
The latent emblem of a nobler cause.
If chance, a stray, lone, bird my course invites,
I think of Meredith, and proselytes;
Mean, mangled, game not for itself I prize;
Vengeance and Palliser to memory rise.

Some senatorial type ev'n Pointers yield;
One loves too narrow, one too wide a field;
This creeps below, that springs above his work,
As Hartley slow, or uncontrol'd as Burke.
With rav'nous ardor some devour the prey;
O gentle Sawbridge, lash such fiends away !
Others, with puzzling zeal, small objects mark;
Judicious Luttrell, bid them ware a lark!

But come, dear Jack, all martial as thou art,
With spruce cockade, heroically smart,
Come, and once more together let us greet
The long lost pleasures of St. James's Street,
Enough o'er stubbles have I deign'd to tread;
Too long wer't thou at anchor, at Spithead!

Come, happy Friend! to hail thy wish'd return, Nor vulgar fire, nor venal light shall burn, From gentle bosoms purer flames shall rise, And keener ardors flash from Beauty's eyes. Methinks, I see thee now resume thy stand, Pride of Fop-alley, tho' a little tann'd: What tender joy the gazing Nymphs disclose! How pine with envy the neglected Beaux ! While many a feeble frown and struggling smile, Fondly reprove thy too adventurous toil, And seem with reprehensive love to say, " Dear Mr. Townshend, wherefore didst thou stray! "What fatal havoc might one shot have made, -"If not thy life, thy leg the forfeit paid!