and from heath to forest, afford a greater scope for contempla tion, extend our attention more naturally to the scenes through which he glides, and afford more leisure and apology, both for description and varied reflection. We can easily conceive that a fowler should give way to musings that may ripen into poetry. It is difficult to imagine how a fox-hunter should put the chase into blank verse.
In the First Book, which treats of Grouse Shooting, the loneliness of the scorched and shadeless heaths which the fowler traverses, is very well described; and the merits of setting-dogs discussed in the most scientific manner. We give the following account of the close of the day's labours, as a specimen of the author's powers of description.
Now let us view the spoil, erewhile we trust
To be increas'd, the ruffl'd plumage dress,
Remove with careful hand the clotted gore,
That so the maid, to whose lov'd name e'en now
We lift the cup, may dread not to receive
The off'ring destin'd to her snowy hand.
Amusing sight! to see the prostrate dogs,
Rous'd from their unsound slumbers, sit erect
Upon their haunches, and, with high rais'd ears,
And head one side declin'd, attentive mark
My actions, as I turn the lifeless birds
This way and that. Their eyes so bright of late,
Surmounted by a brow of scarlet fringe,
How dull and heavy now! yet still their plumes
Retain their colour, red and white immix'd,
With transverse bars, and spots of sable hue.
Most common these yet grouse of other kind
The fowler often finds, of larger growth
And glossy jet, black game or heath-cock term'd.
But in the North the lovely race is found
More frequent, chief where Scotia spreads at large
Her heaths, her mountains, and her glitt'ring lochs,
With piny forests intersected oft,
Primeval Nature, simple and august.
Beneath those deep and solitary shades,
With native freedom blest, the wild deer roves;
The ptarmacan and cappercaily there,
Jealous and shy, glide through the verdant gloom."
Upon some rocky mountain's ample side,
His tent the sportsman pitches; day by day
His joyous task pursues,' &c. p. 21-24.
The work is done: and see, the setting sun
But lingers on the brow of yon dark hill
Empurpl'd with his beams, to bid farewell.
Farewell, great orb of day! content I view
Thy fiery disk forsake our hemisphere,
Conveying light and life to other climes.
How still is all around! no human sounds,
Nor low of wand'ring herds, nor bleat of sheep,
Break the deep silence of these wastes remote.
The spoil secur'd, with joyous heart I leave
The solitary scene, to join, once more,
In the far distant vales, my fellow men.
There lies my way, betwixt those hills that rise
On either side, and form a hollow pass,
And, pointing to the western sky, reflect
The sun's departed rays. Yet once again
I turn, and, in the changing east, remark
The ev'ning shades their filmy vapours draw
Across the blue expanse; whilst in the west,
Deep azure yet surmounts the saffron robe
That clothes the smiling heav'ns. How sweet to mark,
As down the heath I wind, the distant scene
Unfolding by degrees! At first appear
The blue topp'd hills, with floating vapours crown'd, Drawn from the vale beneath; the spiral wreath Of smoke ascending through the tranquil air, Its source unseen, 'till the close-crowding trees Denote the shelter'd farm that lies below. How fast each well known object now recurs! The grassy slope, the winding shrubby lane, The clatt'ring mill; and now, at large display'd, The village rises to my gladden'd eye. Here let me pause upon this antient stile O'ergrown with moss, and Nature's charms survey, Clad in her ev'ning robe; and let my ear Catch the sweet rural sounds that float around. But hark! what melody is this, that bursts Upon my ravish'd sense? the rustic youths, Their daily labour done, in yon grey tow'r Ring round the tuneful peal. I love the strain, Whether its merry morning notes proclaim The plighted vows of some unpolish'd pair, Or chiming slow, as now, with frequent pause, Chaunt a sweet requiem to the dying day. The peal has ceas'd. The rustic youths repair, With hasty foot, each to his simple home.' p. 31-34. The second book is about the shooting of partridges; and very full of moral reflections and instructions to young sportsmen. We proceed, however, to the third, which describes the destruction of pheasants, and is more original and poetical.
Hail, lovely season of the changing year!
What varied beauties clothe the mellow scene!
On some still day, when deep repose enchains
The loud discordant winds, how sweet a calm
Pervades the scene, as Nature's self repos'd
Through all her varied works, and whisper'd rest
To restless toilsome man!
P. 75.
After an eloquent address to his dog, the sportsman proceeds.
Here at this gap,
Here will we enter, where the yellow leaves,
The first pale off'rings of the trembling woods
To tyrant Winter, by his servile slaves
Eurus and Boreas gather'd, strew the ground.
Now put your vigour forth, my old ally,
And round this op'ning glade, with circling steps,
The clust'ring thickets range. Ah! there they rise,
One haply comes this way. The gun resounds.
I saw him fall beneath the mossy branch
Of that wide-spreading oak. Yes, there he lies!
His vivid plumage, like an heap of gems
On a coarse carpet spread, seems all too rich
For the rough russet ground on which it lies. p. 78, 79.
While he reposes a while in the depth of the wood, he indulges
in a long invective against a town life, and an effeminate educa-
tion. We are better pleased, however, with the description
which winds it up.
E'en here, extended on the verdant moss
That clothes the twisted roots of this tall tree,
What tranquil pleasure soothes my careless mind!
Whilst all that meets the eye or strikes the ear,
Harmonious mingling, swells the woodland scene.
Nor the soft whisper of the passing gale
Amidst the trembling leaves, nor various hues
Those leaves that sweetly paint, nor sights nor sounds
Inanimate, alone unite to please.
Borne on the breeze, from the high-furrow'd field,
The ploughman's steady chaunt to his slow team
Monotonous, I mark. The blackbird pipes
From the green holly; then, with thoughtless wing,
Close glances by my side; but wheeling short,
Alters his course, and shrieking, as he flies,
Proclaims his groundless fears. The little wren
Flits on from branch to branch, 'till, o'er my head,
With tail erect and nodding head, he vents,
Chatt'ring, his anger at intrusive man.
Above, with circling flight, the rav'nous kite
Sails o'er the wood, and, stooping oft,
Brushes the topmost boughs, and, with keen eye,
Explores the ground beneath; 'till hither led
By chance, he startles at my dang❜rous form,
Flaps his wide wings, and quickly soars aloft.
Through wither'd grass and ferns the whitethroat creeps,
Oft stopping to inhale the scented air
With eager nose; then fast, with foot as light
As falling leaf, he nimbly winds away.
The book closes with the description of a woodland sunset, without omitting the circumstances appropriate to the author's
Thus through the winding shades as slow I pass,
The pheasant cockets, ere he seeks in sleep
To close his brilliant eye, whilst whistling sharp
In her descending flight his mate responds. p. 92.
The Fourth Book, which treats of Woodcock Shooting, has very considerable merit. The winter landscape is prettily sketched; and the adventures of the woodcock himself pursued with considerable feeling.
Ill fares it with him then,
On stormy seas mid-way surpris'd: no land
Its swelling breast presents, where safe reclin'd
His panting heart might find a short repose;
But wide around the hoarse-resounding seas
Meets his dim eye. Should some tall ship appear
High bounding o'er the waves, urg'd by despair,
He seeks the rocking masts, and throws him down
Amid the twisted cordage :-thence repell❜d,
If instant blows deprive him not of life,
He flutters weakly on, and drops at last,
Helpless and flound'ring, in the whit'ning surge,
Yet not the perils of th' aerial way,
Nor varied death, that hovers on the shore
From guns, and nets, and hairy springes, serve
The fruitful race t'extirpate. When the
Struggles to break from winter's rough embrace,
And with a livelier vesture clothe the earth,
The woodcock musters on the sea-beat shore
His bands decreas'd. On some propitious day
He springs aloft, and through the pathless air,
With course unerring, seeks his native shores.
Perchance on some Norwegian forest vast,
Beneath colossal pines and mingl'd firs,
Where murm'ring streams with fruitful current, wind
Again their wonted course, his old abode,
He plumes his spotted wing anew, and gives
His yielding heart to love: Fearless he roves
Amidst his feather'd family, 'till Fate
Coercive drive him forth to other lands,
In happy ign'rance of impending death. ' p. 99-101. The tender but summer-like gleam of a wintry sun, in a calm and sheltered recess of the woods, is represented with no vulgar skill. We can only make room for the concluding part of the picture.
• On yonder hill a fowler meets my eye,
Where, spreading wide its navigable wave,
The winding river severs in its course
The kindred soil,-diminish'd to a dwarf
Himself, his dogs as dwarfish, and the smoke
That issues from his gun, long time precedes
The faint report. How grateful is the beam
Of the meridian sun, that cheers the world
With no intemp'rate warmth! All nature owns
His sov'reignty benign, and where he points
His condescending ray, the mourning Earth
Smiles faintly, whilst his icy gripe awhile,
Stern Winter half relaxes. Were it not
For the bare forest, and the sallow fields,
Their wither'd herbage sprinkl'd o'er with frost,
The wanton smile of summer might be deem'd
To play upon yon azure wave, where rides
The vessel whose gay flag descends in folds
From the high top-mast, by no breeze disturb'd.' p.116,117. The last book is dedicated to the description of Snipe and Duck Shooting. Both scenes are sketched in a very lively manner; but the scenery of the last is most engaging. After going through the cruel and unnatural operation of rising and breakfasting before daybreak, the poet proceeds.
Awaits him on the river; where the rocks,
Aiding the roaring stream, it keeps at bay
The eager frost, and many a broken pool,
Half liquid and half solid, forms,--the haunt
Of all the kindred tribes that love to cleave,
With glossy breast and paddling feet, the flood,-
Widgeon, or teal, or duck,-majestic swan,
Or heavy goose--with many a fowl beside
Of lesser size and note, who, when the world
Has sunk to rest, beneath the moon-beam dash
The sparkling tide.
p. 129, 130.
Those tow'ring rocks,
With nodding wood o'erhung, that faintly break
Upon the straining eye, descending deep,
A hollow basin form, the which receives
The foaming torrent from above. Around
Thick alders grow. We steal upon the
spot
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