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To list thy brutal, senseless cry,

When dogs condemn the prey to die,
Already dead with fear.

Or, up before the chant of cocks,
I view thee run the cunning fox;*

When mark the sudden check:

at the same time, conceives, that were such deer more common in the present day, they might deter many fools from acts of cruelty, which too forcibly bring to recollection the beautiful cogitations of Jacques on the wounded stag, in Shakspeare's As you like it.

:

To the which place a poor sequester'd stag,
That from the hunter's aim had ta'en a hurt,
Did come to languish; and, indeed, my lord,
The wretched animal heav'd forth such groans,
That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat
Almost to bursting; and the big, round tears,
Cours'd one another down his innocent nose,
In piteous chase.

*That a lover of field sports may not want for a dinner, after one of these hard runs, I would advise him to adopt the plan of the Huns, who, according to Ammianus Marcellinus.

"Hunii semicruda cujusvis pecoris carne vescuntur, quam inter femora sua et equorum terga subsertam, fotu calefaciunt brevi.--Or, to quote Butler:

*

I see thee thrown in dire alarm;
Snap goes a leg, a rib, an arm:

Or, what's less dear, thy neck.*

This is not all thy foolery:

Guilty thou art of cruelty,

Where most thou shouldst refrain:†

His countrymen the Huns,

Did use to stew between their bums,

And their warm horses' backs their meat,

And ev'ry man his saddle eat.

Although the poet, in the above line, has conveyed a most bitter sarcasm on the amateurs of the chase, we cannot but reflect with pain on the untimely end of the late amiable and refined Marquis of Tavistock, whose death was occasioned by a fall from his horse while hunting, which melancholy event soon occasioned also the demise of his no less amiable lady. Nor can the writer but reflect with sorrow on the dreadful effects which the same diversion has produced in the person of the present Lord D-rh-st: not to mention innumerable other instances of a similar nature, of which there are living testimonies, who are not only rendered objects to the view of others, but are an unceasing burden to themselves.

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It has been the misfortune of the writer to experience what is termed a good chase; and never were his feelings

Nay, thine is also cowardice;

For noble minds disdain such vice;

Nor give the pow'rless pain.

more shocked than to witness the piercing cries of the timid hare, when the ravenous hounds darted on their inoffensive prey. As to the much vaunted music of a pack, it may do very well for gentlemen, whose ears are enamoured of no softer tones than those which resound from the blacksmith's hammer, or the united brayings of a dozen asses. But for the writer, who rather pretends to have a little music in his soul, he is so tasteless on the score of yelping curs, as to find in the sounds nothing but dissonance and vile harshness. As the annotator has been speaking of cruelty, he cannot but add a few words on the score of cocking, which generally claims the attention of sportsmen; than which no pursuit can possibly prove more repugnant to the mind of feeling and sensibility; and when it is remembered that the great cockfighter, Mr. Ardesoif, in revenge for his bird having lost him a main, literally roasted the unfortunate creature alive; it will not be said, that the poet has overstretched the bounds of truth in speaking of the callosity of those minds which are swayed by pursuits of this nature.

L'ENVOY OF THE POET.

As custom will each mental bane ensure,

Root from thy soul the rank, corrosive weeds; Nor, for thy pastimes, make the weak endure Those pangs that stain thy heart with savage deeds.

THE POET'S CHORUS TO FOOLS.

Come, trim the boat, row on each Rara Avis,
Crowds flock to man my Stultifera Navis.

SECTION XXXIII.

OF FOOLS WHO PRETEND TO DESPISE DEATH.

Summam nec metuas diem, nec optes.

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools

The way to dusty death.

THE senseless fool, who oft delights

To laugh at all religious rites,

And ridicule the grave:

Will, when the hour of death draws near
Find all his courage end in fear,

And be no longer brave.*

* Shakspeare, in Measure for Measure, has delivered the horrors that oppress the mind, on contemplating death, in so beautiful a style, that the writer conceives no apology necessary for the introduction of the lines under this head:

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