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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=420371" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Rural Sports: A Georgic - Canto II.</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now, sporting muse, draw in the flowing reins,<br>Leave the clear streams a while for sunny plains.<br>Should you the various arms and toils rehearse,<br>And all the fisherman adorn thy verse;<br>Should you the wide-encircling net display,<br>And in its spacious arch enclose the sea,<br>Then haul the plunging load upon the land,<br>And with the soale and turbot hide the sand;<br>It would extend the growing theme too long,<br>And tire the reader with the watery song.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Let the keen hunter from the chase refrain,<br>Nor render all the ploughman's labour vain,<br>When Ceres pours out plenty from her horn,<br>And clothes the fields with golden ears of corn.<br>New, now, ye reapers to your task repair,<br>Haste, save the product of the bounteous year.<br>To the wide-gathering hook long furrows yield,<br>And rising sheaves extend through all the field.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yet if for silvan sport thy bosom glow,<br>Let thy feet greyhound urge his dying foe.<br>With what delight the rapid course I view!<br>How does my eye the circling race pursue!<br>He snaps deceitful air with empty jaws,<br>The subtle hare darts swift beneath his paws;<br>She flies, he stretches, now with nimble bound.<br>Eager he presses on, but overshoots his ground;<br>She turns, he winds, and soon regains the way,<br>Then tears with goary mouth the screaming prey.<br>What various sport does rural life afford!<br>What unbought dainties heap the wholesome board!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Nor less the spaniel, skilful to betray,<br>Rewards the fowler with the feather'd prey.<br>Soon as the lab'ring horse with swelling veins,<br>Hath safely hous'd the farmer's doubtful gains,<br>To sweet repast the unwary partridge flies,<br>With joy amid the scatter'd harvest lies;<br>Wandering in plenty, danger he forgets,<br>Nor dreads the slavery of entangling nets.<br>The subtile dog scowrs with sagacious nose<br>Along the field, and snuffs each breeze that blows,<br>Against the wind he takes his prudent way,<br>While the strong gale directs him to the prey;<br>Now the warm scent assures the covey near,<br>He treads with caution, and he points with fear<br>Then (lest some centry fowl the fraud descry,<br>And bid his fellows from the danger fly)<br>Close to the ground in expectation lies,<br>Till in the snare the fluttering covey rise.<br>Soon as the blushing light begins to spread<br>And glancing Phoebus gilds the mountain's head,<br>His early flight the ill-fated partridge takes,<br>And quits the friendly shelter of the brakes:<br>Or when the sun casts a declining ray,<br>And drives his chariot down the western way,<br>Let your obsequious ranger search around,<br>Where yellow stubble withers on the ground:<br>Nor will the roving spy direct in vain, <br>But numerous coveys gratify thy pain.<br>When the meridian sun contracts the shade,<br>And frisking heifers seek the cooling shade;<br>Or when the country floats with sudden rains,<br>Or driving mists deface the moist'ned plains;<br>In vain his toils the unskilful fowler tries,<br>While in thick woods the feeding partridge lies.<br>Nor must the sporting verse the gun forbear,<br>But what's the fowler's be the muse's care.<br>See how the well-taught pointer leads the way:<br>The scent grows warm; he stops; he springs the prey;<br>The fluttering coveys from the stubble rise,<br>And on swift wing divide the sounding skies;<br>The scattering lead pursues the certain sight,<br>And death in thunder overtakes their flight.<br>Cool breathes the morning air, and winter's hand <br>Spreads wide her hoary mantle o'er the land;<br>Now to the copse thy lesser spaniel take,<br>Teach him to range the ditch and force the brake;<br>Now closest coverts can protect the game:<br>Hark! the dog opens; take thy certain aim;<br>The woodcock flutters; how he wavering flies!<br>The wood resounds: he wheels, he drops, he dies.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The towering hawk let future poets sing,<br>Who terror bears upon his soaring wing:<br>Let them on high the frighted hern survey,<br>And lofty numbers paint their airy fray,<br>Nor shall the mounting lark the muse detain,<br>That greets the morning with his early strain;<br>When, 'midst his song, the twinkling glass betrays;<br>While from each angle flash the glancing rays,<br>And in the sun the transient colours blaze,<br>Bride lures the little warbler from the skies:<br>The light-enamour'd bird deluded dies.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But still the chase, a pleasing task, remains;<br>The hound must open in these rural strains.<br>Soon as Aurora drives away the night,<br>And edges eastern clouds with rosy light,<br>The healthy huntsman, with the cheerful horn,<br>Summons the dogs, and greets the dappled morn;<br>The jocund thunder wakes the enliven'd hounds,<br>They rouse from sleep, and answer sounds for sounds.<br>Wide through the furzy field their rout they take,<br>Their bleeding bosoms force the thorny brake:<br>The dying game their smoking nostrils trace,<br>No bounding hedge obstructs their eager pace;<br>The distant mountains echo from afar,<br>And hanging woods resound the flying war:<br>The tuneful noise the sprightly courser hears,<br>Paws the green turf, and pricks his trembling ears<br>The slacken'd rein now gives him all his speed,<br>Back flies the rapid ground beneath the steed:<br>Hills, dales, and forests far behind remain,<br>While the warm scent draws on the deep mouth'd train.<br>Where shall the trembling hare a shelter find?<br>Hark! death advances in each gust of wind!<br>New stratagems and doubling wiles she tries,<br>Now circling turns, and now at large she flies;<br>Till spent at last, she pants, and heaves for breath<br>Then lays her down, and waits devouring death.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But stay, advent'rous muse, hast thou the force<br>To wind the twisted horn, to guide the horse?<br>To keep thy seat unmov'd hast thou the skill<br>O'er the high gate, and down the headlong hill<br>Canst thou the stag's laborious chase direct,<br>Or the strong fox through all his arts detect,<br>The theme demands a more experienc'd lay;<br>Ye mighty hunters, spare this weak essay.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oh happy plains, remote from war's alarms,<br>And all the ravages of hostile arms!<br>And happy shepherds, who, secure from fear,<br>On open downs preserve your fleecy care!<br>Whose spacious barns groan with increasing store,<br>And whirling flails disjoint the cracking floor:<br>No barbarous soldier, bent on cruel spoil,<br>Spreads desolation o'er your fertile soil;<br>No trampling steed lays waste the ripen'd grain,<br>Nor crackling fires devour the promis'd gain:<br>No flaming beacons cast their blaze afar,<br>The dreadful signal of invasive war;<br>No trumpet's clangor wounds the mother's ear,<br>And calls the lover from his swooning fair.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">What happiness the rural maid attends,<br>In cheerful labour while each day she spends!<br>She gratefully receives what heaven has sent,<br>And, rich in poverty, enjoys content:<br>(Such happiness, and such unblemish'd fame<br>Ne'er glad the bosom of the courtly dame)<br>She never feels the spleen's imagin'd pains,<br>Nor melancholy stagnates in her veins;<br>She never loses life in thoughtless ease,<br>Nor on the velvet couch invites disease;<br>Her home-spun dress in simple neatness lies<br>And for no glaring equipage she sighs:<br>Her reputation, which is all her boast,<br>In a malicious visit ne'er was lost:<br>No midnight masquerade her beauty wears,<br>And health, not paint, the fading bloom repairs.<br>If love's soft passion warms her happy swain;<br>An equal passion in her bosom reign,<br>No home-bred jars her quiet state control,<br>Nor watchful jealousy torments her soul;<br>With secret joy she sees her little race<br>Hang on her breast, and her small cottage grace<br>The fleecy ball their little fingers cull,<br>Or from the spindle draw the length'ning wool:<br>Thus flow her hours with constant peace of mind,<br>Till age the latest thread of life unwind.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ye happy fields, unknown to noise and strife,<br>The kind rewarders of industrious life,<br>Ye shady woods, where once I used to rove;<br>Alike indulgent to the muse and love;<br>Ye murmuring streams that in meanders roll,<br>The sweet composers of the pensive soul,<br>Farewell - The city calls me from your bowers;<br>Farewell amusing thoughts and peaceful hours.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=John+Gay">John Gay</a><div class=q>
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Leave the clear streams a while for sunny plains.
Should you the various arms and toils rehearse,
And all the fisherman adorn thy verse;
Should you the wide-encircling net display,
And in its spacious..."></div>
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