Sport

To see a fellow of a summer's morning,
With a large foxhound of a slumberous eye
And a slim gun, go slowly lounging by,
About to give the feather'd bipeds warning,
That probably they may be shot hereafter,
Excites in me a quiet kind of laughter;
For, though I am no lover of the sport
Of harmless murder, yet it is to me
Almost the funniest thing on earth to see
A corpulent person, breathing with a snort,
Go on a shooting frolic all alone;
For well I know that when he 's out of town,
He and his dog and gun will all lie down,
And undestructive sleep till game and light are flown.
M.I.
Borx in the north, and rear'd in tropic lands:
Her mind has all the vigour of a tree,
Sprung from a rocky soil beside the sea,
And all the sweetness of a rose that stands
In the soft sunshine on some shelter'd lea.
She seems all life, and light, and love to me!
No winter lingers in her glowing smile,
No coldness in her deep, melodious words,
But all the warmth of her dear Indian isle,
And all the music of its tuneful birds.
With her conversing of my native bowers,
In the far south, I feel the genial air
Of some delicious morn, and taste those flowers,
Which, like herself, are bright above compare.