A SPOUTING POET. 265 



object of boasting who can destroy the greatest 

 number of hves within the shortest given space of 

 time, never did, and never will, come into the 

 category of real sport. The poet, when drawing 

 a comparison between the beasts of prey and 

 lordly man, thus breaks forth : — 



" Not so the steady tyrant man, 

 Who, with the thoughtless insolence of power. 

 Inflamed heyoud the most infuriate wrath 

 Of the worst monster that e'er roamed the waste, 

 For sport alone pursues the cruel chase. 

 Amid the beamings of the gentle day ; 

 Upbraid, ye ravening tribes, our wanton rage, 

 For hunger kindles you, and lawless want ; 

 But lavish fed, in nature's bounty rolled, 

 To joy at anguish, and delight in blood, 

 Is what your horrid bosom never knew." 



Our poet then (who had evidently some good 

 sporting blood in his veins), after lamenting that 

 the wolf and the wild boar no longer exist in 

 our British Isles, to test the courage and daring of 

 our sylvan youth, thus recommends as worthy of 

 pursuit bold Reynard : — 



" Give ye, Britons, then 

 Your sportive fury, pitiless, to pour 

 Loose on the nightly robber of the fold ; 

 Him from his craggy winding haunts unearthed, 

 Let the thunder of the chase pursue ; 

 Throw the broad ditch behind you ; o'er the hedge 



