The rising moon with delegated sway, That mock the crowd, with love's fantastic joy ; shews Where pamper'd pride and indolence repose; Her father's pride, and blest with blooming charms, She wanders now to every vice a prey→→ A prey to yonder terror of the night, (Avert, ye Gods! such monsters from my sight) To scenes Tartarean, see! the wretches hie, Heav'n! how unlike the pure, the tranquil scene, Where rural mirth, and rural manners reign; Where simple cheer disclaims the cares of wealth, And fresh'ning gales diffuse the glow of health; Where undisturb’d, unenvy'd, unconfin'd, Calm Reason rules each moment of the mind; Where mock'd Ambition seeks her last retreat, And proves the world a bubble or a cheat. Through clam'rous streets at length by caution led, Lo! Alma Mater rears her reverend head, Unfolds the portals of her awful courts, Where, nurs'd by Science, future fame resorts Pleas'd we behold the bright'ning fuel blaze, And hot repast that gives content and ease; While keenest appetites a zest bestow, Which listless luxury can never know ; The cloth remov'd, with blessing for our fare, We next the jug of cordial punch prepare; Or purple claret sparkling as we pour, Nectareous juice! to chear the social hour, When toil declining claims refreshment's smiles, And mirthful innocence the time beguiles. With conscious joy our nets we then review, And all the conquests of the day renew, Boast of our skill, and palliate where it fails, But range them round for friendship's sacred shrine; The rural bliss redoubles in our breast, In pleasing others when ourselves are blest : We Nor you, my Friends! disdain what you adore, with pleasure, and would give you more; Our off'ring take, and as we wish survey gave The grateful produce of a Winter's day. EPISTLE X. FROM THE HONORABLE CHARLES FOX, Partridge-Shooting. TO THE HONORABLE JOHN TOWNSHEND, Cruising. BY RICHARD TICKELL, ESQ WHILE you, dear Townshend, o'er the billows ride, 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 downThou laugh'st; I know, thou dost; but check that sneer; Epist. X. EPISTLES DESCRIPTIVE, &c. 87 What tho' no fashion'd sportsman I appear, Yet hence thy Charles's voice gains shriller force; Nor deem ev'n here the cares of state forgot, Oft too, while all around my pointers stray, Not Ranger then, but Washington, I cry; 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 Touch'd by the scent the passing gales convey, "Teach thee where best to aim, what ground to take." |