Boast of our skill, and palliate where it fails, But range them round for friendship's sacred shrine ; In pleasing others when ourselves are blest : 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 down Thou 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." 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; A double barrel's force, but try in vain ; But if too soon the startled covey rise, And move a previous question in the skies, My faithful groom quick marks them as they spring, To their old beaten ground the covey's gone; Thus from each kindred image, fancy draws If chance, a stray, lone, bird my course invites, Some senatorial type ev'n Pointers yield; But come, dear Jack, all martial as thou art, 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 ardors 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 Beaux ! 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 havoc might one shot have made, "If not thy life, thy leg the forfeit paid! |