O! ever good and bounteous! still
By fountain fresh, or murmʼring rill,
Let me thy blissful pleasures find!
Thee, goddess, thee my steps pursue,
When, careless of the morning dew,
I leave the less'ning vales behind.
From the Hon. Charles Fox, partridge shooting, to the Hon. John Townshend, cruising.
WHILE you, dear Townshend, o'er the billows ride,
Mulgrave in front, and Hanger by thy 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-my old brown;
Trimm'd to a jacket, with the skirts cut down—-
Thou laugh'st;-I know thou dost ;-but check that sneer;
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.
Oft too, when 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 practic❜d skill,
His active followers yield a hasty will.
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 take."
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 vet'ran 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 cavey 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 nemine con, To their old beaten ground the covey's gone; Or, scatt'ring 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 mem'ry rise.—
Some senatorial type ev'n pointers yield;
One loves too narrow, one too wide a field;
This creeps too low, that springs above his work,
As Hartley slow, or uncontrol'd as Burke.
With rav'nous ardour 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 stubble have I deign'd to tread;
Too long wert 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 ardours 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 beaus! 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 havock might one shot have made,
If not thy life, thy leg the forfeit paid!
That shot thy foretop might have made its prey,
Or sing'd one dear devoted curl away:
Or lopp'd that hand, the pride of love and lace;
Or scarr'd, with bolder sacrilege, thy face."
Soon as to Brooks's then thy footsteps bend, With gratulations thy approach attend!
See Gibbon rap his box; auspicious sign,
That classic compliment and wit combine;
See Beauclerk's cheek a tinge of red surprize,
And friendship give what cruel heaith denies.
Important Townshend, what can thee withstand?
The ling'ring black-ball lags in Boothby's hand;
Ev'n Drapier checks the sentimental sigh,
And Smith, without an oath, suspends the die.
That night, to festive wit and friendship due, That night thy Charles's board shall welcome you. Sallads that shame ragouts, shall woo thy taste; Deep shalt thou delve in Weltjie's motley paste : Derby shall lend, if not his plate, his cooks,
And, know, I've bought the best champaigne from Brooks;
From lib'ral Brooks, whose speculative skill
Is hasty credit, and a distant bill;
Who, nurs'd in clubs, disdains a vulgar trade,
Exults to trust, and blushes to be paid!
On that auspicious night, supremely grac❜d With chosen guests, the pride of liberal taste, Not in contentious heat, nor mad'ning strife, Not with the busy ills, nor cares of life,
We'll waste the fleeting hours, far happier themes Shall claim each thought, and chase ambition's dreams. Each beauty that sublimity can boast,
He best shall tell, who still unites them most.
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