Page:The Seasons - Thomson (1791).djvu/170

 Would tempt the Muse to sing the rural Game: How, in his mid-career, the spaniel struck, Stiff, by the tainted gale, with open nose, Outstretch'd, and finely sensible, draws full, Fearful, and cautious, on the latent prey; As in the sun the circling covey bask Their varied plumes, and watchful every way Thro' the rough stubble turn the secret eye. Caught in the meshy snare, in vain they beat Their idle wings, intangled more and more: Nor on the surges of the boundless air, Tho' borne triumphant, are they safe; the gun, Glanc'd just, and sudden, from the fowler's eye, O'ertakes their sounding pinions; and again, Immediate, brings them from the towering wing, Dead to the ground; or drives them wide-dispers'd, Wounded, and wheeling various, down the wind.

are not subjects for the peaceful Muse, Nor will she stain with such her spotless song; Then most delighted, when she social sees The whole mix'd animal-creation round Alive, and happy. 'Tis not joy to her, This falsely-cheerful barbarous game of death; This rage of pleasure, which the restless youth Awakes, impatient, with the gleaming morn; When beasts of prey retire, that all night long, Urg'd by necessity, had rang'd the dark, As if their conscious ravage shun'd the light, Asham'd. Not so the steady tyrant man, Who with the thoughtless insolence of power Inflam'd, beyond the most infuriate wrath Of the worst monster that e'er roam'd the waste, For sport alone pursues the cruel chace, Amid the beamings of the gentle days. Ubraid,