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Who o’er the nicely-measur'd land
Ranges around his comely band,
Alert to intercept each blow,
Each motion of the wary foe.

Or patient take thy quiet stand,
The angle trembling in thy hand,
And mark, with penetrative eye,
Kissing the wave the frequent fly,
Where the trout, with eager spring,
Forms the many-circled ring,
And, leaping from the silver tide,
Turns to the sun his speckled side.

Or lead where Health, a naiad fair, With rosy cheek and dripping hair, From the sultry noon-tide beam, Laves in Itchin's crystal-stream.

Thy votaries, rang’d in order due, To-morrow's wish’d-for dawn shall view Greeting the radiant star of light With Matin Hymn and early rite :

E'en now, these hallow'd haunts among,
To Thee we raise the Choral Song ; *
And swell with echoing minstrelsy
The strain of joy and liberty.

If pleasures such as these await Thy genial reign, with heart elate For Thee I throw my gown aside, And hail thy coming, WHITSUNTIDE.

* A Latin song, called “DOMUM,” sung with instrumental accompaniment, on the day before the commencement of their Whitsuntide vacation, by the scholars of Winchester College. The words “ Matin Hymn, &c.” in the preceding couplet refer to other ancient customs of that venerable seminary.

CHRISTMAS.

Hence, Summer, indolently laid
To sleep beneath the cooling shade!
Panting quick with sultry heat,
Thirst and faint Fatigue retreat!

Come, CHRISTMAS! father Thou of Mirth, Patron of the festive hearth, Around whose social ev’ning flame The jovial song, the winter game, The chase renew'd in merry tale, The season's carols never fail. Who, tho' Winter chill the skies, Canst catch the glow of exercise, Following swift the foot-ball's course; Or with unresisted force,

Where Frost arrests the harden'd tide, Shooting athwart the rapid slide.

Who, ere the misty morn is grey, To some high covert hark’st away ; While Sport, on lofty courser borne, In concert winds his echoing horn With the deeply-thund'ring hounds, Whose clangour wild, and joyful sounds, While echo swells the doubling cry, Shake the woods with harmony. How does my eager bosom glow To give the well known tally-ho! Or shew, with cap inverted, where Stole away the cautious hare !

Or, if the blast of Winter keen Spangles o’er the silvery green, Booted high thou lov’st to tread, Marking, thro’ the sedgy mead, Where the creeping moor-hen lies, Or snipes with sudden twittering rise : Or joy'st the early walk to take Where, thro' the pheasant-haunted brake

Oft as the well-aim'd gun resounds,
The eager-dashing spaniel bounds.

For thee of buck my breeches tight, Clanging whip, and rowels bright, The hunter's cap my brows to guard, And suit of sportive green 's prepar’d: For, since these delights are thine, CHRISTMAS, with thy bands I join.

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