Nor is thy grandeur, mighty Hobbino!!
Of longer date. Short is, alas! the reign

Of mortal pride: we play our parts a while,
And strut upon the stage; the scene is chang'd,
And offers us a dungeon for a throne.

Wretched vicissitude! for after all
His tinsel dreams of empire and renown,
Fortune, capricious dame, withdraws at once
The goodly prospect, to his eyes presents
Her whom his conscious soul abhorr'd and fear'd.
Lo! pu-hing thro' the crow'd, a meagre form,
With hasty step, and visage incompos'd:
Wildly she star'd; rage sparkled in her eyes,
And poverty sat shrinking on her cheeks:
Yet thro' the cloud that hung upon her brows
A faded lustre broke, that dimly shone,
Shorn of its beams, the ruins of a face

Impair'd by time, and shatter'd by misfortunes.
A froward babe hung at her flabby breast,
And tugg'd for life, but wept, with hideous moan,
His frustrate hopes and unavailing pains.
Another o'er her bending shoulder peep'd,
Swaddled around with rags of various hue.
He kens his comrade-twin with envious eye,
As of his share defrauded: then amain
He also screams, and to his brother's cries
In doleful concert joins his loud laments,
O dire effect of lawless love! O sting

330

340

359

Of pleasures past! As when a full-freight ship,
Bless'd in a rich return of pearl or gold,
Or fragrant spice, or silks of costly dye,
Makes to the wish'd-for port with swelling sails,
And all her gaudy trim display'd; o'eroy'd,

360

The master smiles; but if from some small creek

A lurking corsair the rich quarry spies,
With all her sails bears down upon her prey,
And peals of thunder from her hollow sides
Check his triumphant course; aghast he stands,
Stiffen d-with fear, unable to resist,

And impotent to fly, all his fond hopes

Are dash'd at once! nought now, alas! remains
But the sad choice of slavery or death!
So far'd it with the hapless Hobbinol,
In the full blaze of his triumphant joy,
Surpris'd by her whose dreadful face alone

370

Could shake his stedfast soul. In vain he turns,
And shifts his place averse; she haunts him' still,
And glares upon him with her haggard eyes, [sighs
That fiercely spoke her wrongs. Words swell'd with
At length burst forth, and thus she storms enrag'd:

"Know'st thou not me? false man! Not to know me "Argues thyself unknowing of thyself,

"Puff'd up with pride, and bloated with success. 380 "Is injur'd Mopsa then so soon forgot?

"Thou knew'st me once, ah! woe is me! thou didst. "But if laborious days and sleepless nights,

"If hunger, cold, contempt, and penury, "Inseparable guests, have thus disguis'd

"Thy once-belov'd, thy handmaid dear; if thine "And Fortune's frowns have blasted all my charms; "If here no roses grow, no lilies bloom,

"Nor rear their heads on this neglected face; "If thro' the world I range a slighed shade,

390

"The ghost of what I was, forlorn, unknown, "At least know these. See! this sweet simp'ring babe, "Dear image of thyself; see how it sprunts "With joy at thy approach! see how it gilds "Its soft smooth face with false paternal smiles! "Native deceit! from thee, base man! deriv'd; "Or view this other elf, in ev'ry art

"Of smiling fraud, in ev'ry treach'rous leer, "The very Hobbinol! Ah! cruel man!

401

"Wicked ingrate! And couldst thou then so soon, "So soon forget that pleasing fatal night "When me, beneath the flow'ry thorn surpris'd, "Thy artful wiles betray'd? Was there a star "By which thou didst not swear? Was there a curse, "A plague on earth, thou didst not then invoke

"On thy devoted head, if e'er thy heart

"Prov'd haggard to my love, ife'er thy hand "Declin'd the nuptial bond? But oh! too well, "Too well, alas! my throbbing breast perceiv'd "The black impending storm; the conscious moon "Veil'd in a sable cloud her modest face,

"And boding owls proclaim'd the dire event.
"And yet I love thee.---Oh! couldst thou behold
"That image dwelling in my heart! But why,
"Why waste I here these unavailing tears?
"On this thy minion, on this tawdry thing,
"On this gay victim, thus with garlands crown'd,
All, all my vengeance fall! ye Lightnings! blast
"That face accurs'd, the source of all my woe:
"Arm, arm, ye Furies! arm; all hell break loose,
"While thus I lead you to my just revenge, 421
"And thus"---Up starts th' astonish'd Hobbinol
To save his better half. "Fly, fly," he cries,
"Fly, my dear life! the fiend's malicious rage."

Borne on the wings of Fear, away she bounds,
And in the neighb'ring village pants forlorn.
So the cours'd hare to the close covert flies,
Still trembling, tho' secure. Poor Hobbinol
More grievous ills attend: around him press
A multitude, with huge Herculean clubs,
Terrific band! the royal mandate these
Insulting show: arrested and amaz'd,

Half dead he stands; no friends dare interpose,
But bow dejected to th' imperial scroll:

Such is the force of law. While conscious shame
Sits heavy on his brow, they view the wretch
To Rhadamanth's august tribunal dragg'd;
Good Rhadamanth! to ev'ry wanton clown
Severe, indulgent to himself alone.

430

439

ADVERTISEMENT.

THE several Acts of Parliament in favour of Falconry are an evident proof of that high esteem our ancestors had conceived for this noble diversion. Our neighbours, France, Germany, and Italy, and all the rest of Europe, have seemed to vie with one another who should pay the greatest honours to the courageous Falcon. Princes and states were her protectors, and men of the greatest genius, and most accomplished in all sorts of literature, with pleasure carried the hawk on their fists but the princes of Asia, Turks, Tartars, Persians, Indians, &c. have greatly outdone us Europeans in the splendour and magnificence of their field parades, both as huntsmen and falconers: for though the description of flying at the stag and other wild beasts, with eagles, may be thought a little incredible, yet permit me to assure the reader that it is no fiction, but a real fact. All the ancient books of Falconry give us an account of it, and the relations of travellers confirm it: but what I think puts it out of all dispute, is the description the famous Monsieur de Thou has given us in his Latin poem, De Re Accipi

Mr. Somervile's poem upon Hawking, called Field Sports, was sent to Mr. Lyttelton, to be read to the Prince, to whom it is inscribed. It seems he is fond of hawking.

Volume I.

Shenstone, Letter to Mr. Graves, Dec. 24, 1742.