On the Death of Lord Eglington

The morn was fair, the air serene,
And cheer'd each shepherd lad,
The rustling woods were dress'd in green,
The vales with verdure clad.

Ceres her golden crops had shorn,
And harvest-home had sung;
With Dian's hounds and early horn,
The hills and vallies rung.

At such a time, on such a day,
Lord Eglington arose,
Then sally'd he with horse away,
And to the woodland goes.

His coat was all of Saxon green,
And velvet was his cap;
A neater sportsman ne'er was seen,
To scout the mountain lap.

A bolder steed, a braver Sir,
Ne'er follow'd hunter's cry,
For e'er he ply'd the chafing spur,
He seem'd to ride and fly.

His dogs well train'd, no better sure,
Ere couched at command;
A gun more certain and secure,
Ne'er graced a sportsman's hand.

O'er rocks, thro' woods, and down the steep,
Like Perseus in his pride;
'Twould glad the heart to see him sweep,
Adown the mountain side.

Beneath an hill, alack! the day!
A lurking poacher stood;
All eager, watching for his prey,
Beside a lonely wood.

Who thought ere long, some snipe or hare,
Wou'd rise within his shot;
He cock'd his gun, he trim'd his snare,
But little prov'd his lot.

Anon a lovely woodcock stired,
Within the wat'ry brake,
Which soon the watchful spaniel heard,
Who to his master spake.

The poacher heard the fond alarm,
And saw the victim rise;
He pois'd his piece with skilful arm;
He shot and hit his prize.

Then instantly recharg'd with speed,
And watch'd with greedy eye;
But little thought who next wou'd bleed,
What nobler game shou'd die.

Unlucky shot, unlucky bird,
To loose thy harmless state;
Unlucky Eglington that heard,
The summons to thy fate.

O hadst thou elsewhere been engaged;
We had not felt this woe;
Had'st thou in warlike combat wag'd,
With some more noble foe.

Some fiend of fate was sure abroad,
And mischief bore command;
Thy stars combind in one accord,
And death stood dart in hand.

My lord pursued the fatal sound,
With anger in his mind,
And in the vale the poacher found,
Upon his gun reclin'd.

When thus he 'gan the man to chide,
That durst invade the law;
Who strove his gun and game to hide,
And blush'd with guilt and awe.

Resign, presumptious hind, resign!
Thou hast no business here;
These lands and woods thou know'st are mine,
Resign, or thou'lt pay dear.

I'll not resign thou haughty lord,
Altho' these lands are thine,
I've said it, and I'll keep my word,
The gun shall still be mine.

The hand that gave each creature breath,
And planted ev'ry tree,
Will shield me from the hand of death,
As soon as it will thee.

Impartial nature ne'er design'd,
That lords alone shou'd reign;
To tax the air, to rule the wind,
The tyrants of the plain.

I feel an appetite and will,
A thirst for pleasure too,
And have as great a right to kill,
And eat, as well as you.

Now boil'd the blood within the veins,
Of brave lord Eglington;
Rage unbridl'd all her reins,
Whilst veng'ence spur'd him on.

With blood all blurted in his face,
And lightning in his eyes;
I'll not endure this language base,
From one like thee he cries.

Harsh was the language which he spoke,
Like Hercules he frown'd;
And with a stout and pithy oak,
He struck him to the ground.

As one fell'd by a thunder stroke,
He speechless lay awhile;
Then half recovered, thus he spoke,
In melancholy stile.

Inhuman lord! you little know,
The means that brought me here;
You might have spar'd each cruel blow,
And yielded me a tear.

Is it because that chance has thrown
Thee into fortune's arms,
To call these woods and vales thy own,
Which yield a thousand charms.

Is it for this, that thou shou'dst be
So cruel and unkind,
A stranger to humanity,
Where poverty you find.

It is because thou art in need,
Of what my gun has slain;
If that should be the case, indeed,
I ne'er would shoot again.

Or if like me, thou shouldst depend,
On what the fields afford;
Who, save my gun, can boast no friend,
To furnish out my board.

For know proud Lord! I should not care,
To venture forth for game;
Were I not hunted by despair,
To risk my life and name.

Go to yon cot, and there survey,
A scene Wou'd melt a stone,
Where oft I sigh the live-long day,
In melancholy moan.

Where the sad mother weeping stands,
Surrounded by a brood,
That lift their little harmless hands,
And cry aloud for food.

Where through the low and shatter'd wall,
Keen blows the whistling wind,
When snows in fleecy showers fall,
And winter bites unkind.

When trees that late with leaves were hung,
Small icicles adorn;
And where the chearful thrushes sung,
The stock-doves sit forlorn.

There bolden'd by my wretched state,
Thro' these fair lands I roam;
And when good luck shall prove my fate,
I bring my treasures home.

With joy I see my infants feed,
And bless the lucky day;
I feel no sorrow at the deed,
While round my hearth they play.

Audacious clown, replied my lord,
That dares thus to my face,
Thy lawless practices record,
And boast an act so base.

But these instructions I'll not bear,
And therefore clown resign;
Thou shalt, nor woodcock shoot nor hare,
While these fair lands are mine.

Throw down your arms and go your gate,
And follow good advice;
You will repent it man, too late,
If here you venture twice.

I'll go my gate, the poacher cry'd,
And here offend no more.
The world, thank Heaven's, fair and wide,
'Twas made for rich and poor.

'Tis gi'en the bold and pamper'd steed,
To brouze in pastures gay;
On rich and luscious food to feed,
And wanton all the day.

Whilst Nature's slave, the humble ass,
Dejected, meek, and poor,
Is glad a leisure day to pass,
Upon the barren moor.

Releas'd his burden, there he feeds,
And thinks the thistle sweet;
He asks no more than nature needs,
A belly full's a treat.

He thirsts not for the gold he bears,
When weary on the road;
But ever happy he appears,
If moderate his load.

So I emburden'd with distress,
Deny'd these vales to tread;
I'll forth to yonder wilderness,
And seek my daily bread.

The forest broad, the dreary wilds,
Tho' poor, may yet be kind;
There fortune, yield me but thy smiles,
Then blow the roughest wind.

I ask not for her gold, nor wealth,
Be those for lazy pride;
Give me but raiment, food, and health,
The rest let fools divide.

There spight of thee, thou haughty peer!
I'll drink tranquility;
Nor shall I live again in fear,
Of such a thing as thee.

Cease, cease thou presumptious slave,
Nor think I'll list to thee?
Thou empty moralizing knave,
How dar'st thou preach to me.

Resign thy gun, thou loon, I say,
Or by my soul I swear,
I'll make thee fellow, rue the day,
That ever thou cam'st here.

Then aiming at the poacher's head,
Who laugh'd at what he spoke;
As if he meant to strike him dead,
E'en at a single stroke.

The poacher to evade the blow,
Three paces back retir'd;
His face with passion 'gan to glow,
As if his heart were fir'd.

I swear then, by my breath and blood!
My gun and I won't part,
To prove that it's contents are good,
Here take 'em to thy heart!

This done, down upon the ground he fell,
Like to a wounded deer,
And sighing wish'd a long farewell,
To his Corina, dear.

Now all aghast the poacher stood,
To see his deed so foul;
Convulsed boil'd his guilty blood,
And horror seiz'd his soul.

As one distact and wild was he,
All stiffen'd with surprize;
Then falling on his bended knee,
Aloud to heav'en cries.

Have mercy! mercy! Gracious God!
Withold the hand of death!
O spare, O spare thy dreadful rod!
O spare, O spare his breath!

Where shall I go, where shall I hide?
How 'scape thy wond'rous eyes?
How drive the spector from my side,
When conscience—murder cries?

Accursed be this vile machine!
Accurs'd the luckless hour!
O had I in the desart been,
Where savages devour.

Or near the threat'ning billows swell,
Had I been doom'd to stand;
Where thy prophetic mermaids yell,
Along the dreadful strand.

O! had some sky-lark rais'd in air,
Or had it prov'd my lot,
That snipe, or partridge, quail or hare,
Had fall'n beneath my shot.

For, ah! I little thought to find,
Such noble game as thee;
Or that the fates had e'er design'd
This bloody task for me!

Dear hasty youth, cou'd I restore
That life I've ta'en away,
I wou'd my better stars implore,
And pine from day to day.

O let me raise thy drooping head,
And lift thee from the ground,
And leave, O leave, this goary bed,
Whilst angels heal the wound!

With deathly cheek, and fainting eye,
The bleeding Earl reply'd;
O bear me Poacher, ere I die,
To my Corina's side.

There let me take my last farewell,
Once more behold her charms,
That fame to future times may tell,
I died within her arms.

Do this! be all thy sins forgiv'n,
Altho' by thee I bleed,
Do this! and may all-judging heav'n,
O'erlook thy bloody deed.

The tears fast down the Poacher's cheek,
In streaming showers fell;
He beat his breast, he strove to speak,
And strove to say farewell.

Grief choak'd all utt'rance for a while,
But now to words gave way;
When in a soul-destracted stile,
He 'gan with tears to pray.

Great God of mercy, yet restore,
This sad, this bleeding lord;
For O his goodness wounds me more,
Then cou'd his keenest sword.

O spare my shame, my grief, despair,
O spare his precious life,
In pity to that tender fair,
His wish'd his promis'd wife.

Ah me! she comes, my hateful deed,
Is blown through all the world;
I soon shall be, (too sure I read)
To dark perdition hurl'd.

My glass is run, Time tolls my knell,
My wretched reign is o'er.—
My wife, my little babes farewel,
I ne'er shall see you more.

Accurs'd am I, of all mankind,
To leave ye thus undone;
Ah! where will you a father find,
When I am dead and gone.

With eyes distract, dishevel'd hair,
The sad Corina came;
Her cries and shriekings pierc'd the air,
With calling on his name.

The names of Death and Eglington,
She join'd in accents sad.—
In pity mighty God look down;
—O let me not be mad!

Wilt thou eclipse him from my sight.
By death's relentless hand?
My blessed Sun, that shon so bright,
The wonder of the land!

He saw her pangs, her voice he heard,
He pressed her to his side;
Death in his face, all pale appear'd,
He bless'd her, sigh'd, and died.