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THE BIRTH OF THE SQUIRE.

AN ECLOGUE.

BY MR. GA Y..

E fylvan Mufes! loftier ftrains recite;

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Not all in fhades and humble cotes delight,
Hark! the bells ring; along the diftant grounds
The driving gales convey the fwelling founds:
Th' attentive fwain, forgetful of his work,
With gaping wonder leans upon his fork.
What fudden news alarms the waking morn?
To the glad Squire a hopeful heir is born.
Mourn, mourn, ye ftags! and all ye beafts of chafe!
This hour deftruction brings on all your race.
See the pleas'd tenants duteous off'rings bear,
Turkeys and geefe, and grocer's sweetest ware;
With the new health the pond'rous tankard flows,
And old October reddens ev'ry nose.
Beagles and fpaniels round his cradle ftand,
Kifs his moift lip, and gently lick his hand;
He joys to hear the fhrill horn's echoing founds,
And learns to lifp the names of all the hounds.
With frothy ale to make his cup o'erflow,
Barley fhall in paternal acres grow;
The bee fhall fip the fragrant dew from flow'rs,
To give metheglin for his morning hours;
For him the cluft'ring hop fhall climb the poles,
And his own orchard sparkle in his bowls.

His fire's exploits he now with wonder hears;
The monftrous tales indulge his greedy cars:

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How, when youth ftrung his nerves and warm'd his veins,
He rode the mighty Nimrod of the plains.
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He leads the ftaring infant thro' the hall;

Points out the horny fpoils that grace the wall;
Tells how this ftag thro' three whole counties fled,
What rivers fwam, where bay'd, and where he bled.
Now he the wonders of the fox repeats,
Describes the defp'rate chafe, and all his cheats;
How, in one day, beneath his furious speed,
He tir'd feven courfers of the fleetest breed ;
How high the pale he leap'd, how wide the ditch,
When the hound tore the haunches of the witch
These ftories, which defcend from fon to fon,
The forward boy fhall one day make his own.
Ah! too fond mother! think the time draws nigh
That calls the darling from thy tender eye;
How shall his spirit brook the rigid rules,
And the long tyranny of grammar schools?
Let younger brothers o'er dull authors plod,
Lash'd into Latin by the tingling rod

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No, let him never feel that smart disgrace;
Why should he wiser prove than all his race?

When rip'ning youth with down o'erfhades his chin,
And ev'ry female eye incites to fin,

The milk-maid (thoughtless of her future shame)
With fmacking lip fhall raife his guilty flame:
The dairy, barn, the hay-loft, and the grove,
Shall oft' be confcious of their stolen love.

But think, Prifcilla, on that dreadful time,

When pangs and wat'ry qualms fhall own thy crime;
How wilt thou tremble, when thy nipple's prefs'd,
To fee the white drops bathe thy fwelling breaft!
Nine moons fhall publicly divulge thy fhame,
And the young Squire foreftal a father's name.
When twice twelve times the reaper's fweeping hand
With levell'd harvests has beftrown the land,

*The most common accident to sportsmen, to hunt a witch in the shape of a bare.

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On fam'd St. Hubert's feaft, his winding horn
Shall chear the joyful hound and wake the morn:
This memorable day his eager speed

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Shall urge with bloody heel the rifing steed.
O check the foamy bit! nor tempt thy fate;
Think on the murders of a five-bar gate!
Yet, prodigal of life, the leap he tries;
Low in the duft his grov'ling honour lies:
Headlong he falls, and on the rugged stone
Distorts his neck, and cracks the collar-boue.
O, vent'rous youth! thy thirft of game allay;
May'st thou furvive the perils of this day!-
He shall furvive; and in late years be fent
To fnore away debates in Parliament.

The time fhall come when his more folid fenfe,
With nod important, fhall the laws difpenfe ;
A Juftice with grave juftices fhall fit;

He praise their wifdom, they admire his wit..
No greyhound fhall attend the tenant's pace,
No rufty gun the farmer's chimney grace;
Salmons fhall leave their coverts void of fear,
Nor dread the thievish net or triple spear;
Poachers fhall tremble at his awful name,

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Whom vengeance now o'ertakes for murder'd game..
Affift me, Bacchus! and ye drunken pow'rs!
To fing his friendships and his midnight hours.
Why doft thou glory in thy ftrength of beer,
Firm-cork'd, and mellow'd till the twentieth year,
Brew'd or when Phoebus warms the fleecy fign,
Or when his languid rays in Scorpio fhine?
Think on the mischiefs which from hence have sprung!
It arms with curfes dire the wrathful tongue

Foul fcandal to the lying lip affords,

And prompts the mem'ry with injurious words.

O, where is wisdom, when by this o'erpower'd?. 9. The ftate is cenfur'd, and the maid deflower'd !

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And wilt thou ftill, O Squire! brew ale fo ftrong?
Hear then the dictates of prophetick fong.
Methinks I fee him in his hall appear,

Where the long table floats in clammy beer;
'Midst mugs and glaffes fhatter'd o'er the floor,
Dead drunk, his fervile crew fupinely fnore;
Triumphant, o'er the proftrate brutes he ftands,
The mighty bumper trembles in his hands;
Boldly he drinks; and, like his glorious fires,
In copious gulps of potent ale expires!

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EHOLD, Alexis! fee this gloomy shade,

Which feems alone for Sorrow's fhelter made,
Where no glad beams of light can ever play,
But night, fucceeding night, excludes the day;
Where never birds with harmony repair,
And lightfome notes, to chear the dufky air,
To welcome day, or bid the fun farewel,
By morning lark or evening Philomel.

No violet here, nor daify, e'er was seen,
No fweetly-budding flower, nor fpringing green;
For fragrant myrtle and the blushing rose,
Here baleful yew with deadly cypress grows.

Here,

Here, then, extended on this wither'd mofs,
We'll lie, and thou fhalt fing of Albion's lofs;
Of Albion's lofs, and of Pastora's death,

Begin thy mournful fong, and raise thy tuneful breath.

ALEXIS

Ah, woe too great! ah, theme which far exceeds
The lowly lays of humble fhepherds reeds!

O could I fing in verfe of equal ftrain
With the Sicilian bard or Mantuan fwain,
Or melting words and moving numbers chufe,
Sweet as the British Colin's Mourning Mufe;
Could I, like him, in tuneful grief excel,
And mourn like Stella for her Aftrophel;
Then might I raise my voice, (fecure of skill)
And with melodious woe the vallies fill;
The lift'ning echo on my song should wait,
And hollow rocks Paftora's name repeat;

Each whistling wind and murm'ring stream should tell,
How lov'd fhe liv'd, and how lamented fell.

MENALCAS.

Wert thou with ev'ry bay and laurel crown'd,
And high as Pan himself in song renown'd,

Yet would not all thy art avail to fhow
Verse worthy of her name or of our woe:
But fuch true paffion in thy face appears,

In thy pale lips, thick fighs, and gushing tears,
Such tender forrow in thy heart I read,

As fhall fupply all skill, if not exceed.

Then leave this common form of dumb distress,
Each vulgar grief can fighs and tears exprefs;
In sweet complaining notes thy passion vent,
And not in fighs, but words explaining fighs, lament.

ALEXIS.

Wild be my words, Menalcas, wild my thought,
Artlefs as Nature's notes in birds untaught:

Boundless

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