Thus, ere night's veil had half obscur’d the sky, EPISTLE IX. THE ACADEMIC SPORTSMAN; OR, A WINTER'S DAY. BY THE REV. GERALD FITZGERALD. The feather'd game that haunt the hoary plains, Oft when I've seen the new-fledg’d morn arise, Through length'ning streets with sanguine hopes I glide, The fatal tube depending at my side; No busy vender dins with clam'rous call, No rattling carriage drives me to the wall ; The close-compacted shops, their commerce laid, In silence frown like mansions of the deadSave, where the sooty-shrouded wretch cries “Sweep,” Or drowsy watchman stalks in broken sleep, 'Scap'd from the hot-brain's youth of midnight fame; Whose mirth is mischief, and whose glory fameSave, that from yonder stew the batter'd beau, With tottring steps, comes reeling to and from Mark, how the live-long revels of the night Stare in his face, and stupify his sight ! Mark the loose frame, yet impotently bold, 'Twixt man and beast, divided empire hold !Amphibious wretch! the prey of passion's tide, The wreck of riot and the mock of pride. But we, my friend, with aims far diff'rent born, To yonder vales that spread beneath the hills, Where Miltown river winds with murm'ring rills, Onward our course diversifyd we bend, The sport begun, and panting still for breath, With arms recruited for the work of death, Pleas'd we behold the gay transparent gleam Of frozen lakes, that skirts the purling stream, With inlaid figures and mosaic wrought, With margin rich and lucid pendants fraught 'Till lively Ranger chides our long delay, Gambols around, then forward springs away. Heaven! what delights my active mind renew, When out-spread nature opens to my view, The carpet-cover'd earth of spangled white, The vaulted sky, just ting'd with purple light; The busy blackbird hops from spray to spray, The gull, self-balanc'd, floats his liquid way ; The morning breeze in milder air retires, And rising rapture all my bosom fires, In incense wafted to the throne on high, While fervid Alights my lifted fancy takes, The wary woodcock rustles through the brakes, With hasty pinions wings his rapid course, 'Till death pursues him, arm’d with double force ; Each gun discharg'd, and conscious of its aim, Asserts the prize, and holds the dubious claim ; 'Till chance decides the long.contested spoil, Proclaims the victor, and rewards his toil. His luckless fate, immediate to repair, The baffled sportsman beats with forward care, Each bush explores, that plats the hedge with pride, Brooks at it's feet, and brambles at it's sideAnother bird, just flushing at the sound, Scarce tops the fence, then tumbles to the ground. Ah! what avails him now the varnish'd dye, The tortoise-color'd back, the brilliant eye, The pointed bill that steers his vent'rous way From northern climes, and dar'd the boisterous sea ? |