Tylney Hall

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Tylney Hall

TYLNEY HALL. 165

would have been vainly sought for in the poets

from Homer downwards. A few stanzas, which he

composed and entered in its pages during his pro-

gress through the park, will serve to show the very

unsportsmanlike tone of feeling with which he could

walk over a domain abounding in game of every

sort, without once taking aim with his mind's eye,

or putting a wish upon half-cock.

Play on, ye timid Rabbits!

For I can see ye run,

Ne'er thinking of a gun,

Or of tlie ferret's habits.

Ye sportive Hares! go forcing

The dewdrop from the bent

My mind is not intent

On greyhounds or on coursing.

Feed on, ye gorgeous Pheasants

My sight I do not vex

With cards about your necks.

Forestalling you for presents.

Go gazing on, and bounding

Thou solitary Deer!

My fancy does not hear

Hounds baying, and horns sounding.

Each furr'd or feather'd creature.

Enjoy with me this earth.

Its life, its love, its mirth.

And die the death of nature

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