CANTO II.
Ye rural powers that on these plains preside,
Ye nymphs that dance on Fortha's flow'ry side,
Assist the Muse that in your fields delights,
And guide her course in these uncommon flights.
But chief, thee, O Golfinia! I implore,
High as thy balls instruct my Muse to soar:
So may thy green for ever crowded be,
And balls on balls invade the azure sky.
Now at that hole the chiefs begin the game,
Which from the neighb'ring thorn-tree takes its name;
Ardent they grasp the ball-compelling clubs,
And stretch their arms t' attack the little globes;
Not as our warriors brandish'd dreadful arms,
When fierce Bellona sounded war's alarms;
When conqu'ring Cromwell stain'd fair Eska's flood,
And soak'd her banks with Caledonian blood;
Or when our bold ancestors madly fought,
And clans engaged for trifles or for nought.
That Fury now from our bless'd fields is driv'n,
To scourge unhappy nations doom'd by heav'n.
Let Kouli Kan destroy the fertile East,
Victorious Vernon thunder in the West;
Let horrid war involve perfidious Spain,
And George assert his empire o'er the main:
But on our plains Britannia's sons engage,
And void of ire the sportive war they wage.
Lo, tatter'd Irus, who their armour bears,
Upon the green two little pyr'mids rears;
On these they place two balls with careful eye,
That with Clarinda's breasts for colour vie,—
The work of Bobson, who, with matchless art,
Shapes the firm hide, connecting ev'ry part,—
Then in a socket sets the well-stitched void,
And thro' the eyelet drives the downy tide;
Crowds urging crowds the forceful brogue impels,
The feathers harden and the leather swells;
He crams and sweats, yet crams and urges more,
Till scarce the turgid globe contains its store;
The dreadful falcon's pride here blended lies
With pigeons' glossy down of various dyes;
The lark's small pinions join the common stock,
And yellow glory of the martial cock.
Soon as Hyperion gilds old Andrea's spires,
From bed the artist to his cell retires,
With bended back, there plies his steely awls,
And shapes, and stuffs, and finishes the balls.
But when the glorious God of day has driv'n
His flaming chariot down the steep of heav'n,
He ends his labour, and with rural strains
Enchants the lovely maids and weary swains:
As thro' the streets the blythsome piper plays,
In antic dance they answer to his lays;
At ev'ry pause the ravish'd crowd acclaim,
And rends the skies with tuneful Bobson's name.
Not more rewarded was old Amphion's song,
That reared a town, and this drags one along.
Such is fam'd Bobson, who in Andrea thrives,
And such the balls each vig'rous hero drives.
First, bold Castalio, ere he struck the blow,
Lean'd on his club, and thus address'd his foe:
Dares weak Pygmalion this stout arm defy,
Which brave Matthias doth with terror try?
Strong as he is, Moravio owns my might,
Distrusts his vigour, and declines the fight.
Renown'd Clephanio I constrain'd to yield,
And drove the haughty vet'ran from the field.
Weak is thine arm, rash youth! thy courage vain;
Vanquish'd, with shame you'll curse the fatal plain.
The half-struck balls your weak endeavours mock,
Slowly proceed, and soon forget the stroke.
Not so the orb eludes my thund'ring force,
Thro' fields of air it holds its rapid course;
Swift as the balls from martial engines driv'n,
Streams like a comet thro' the arch of heav'n.
Vaunter, go on! (Pygmalion thus replies);
Thine empty boasts with justice I despise!
Hadst thou the strength Goliah's spear to wield,
Like its great master thunder on the field,
And with that strength Culloden's matchless art,
Not one unmanly thought should daunt my heart.
He said: and sign'd to Irus, who before
With frequent warnings fill'd the sounding shore.
Then great Castalio his whole strength collects,
And on the orb a noble blow directs;
Swift as a thought the ball obedient flies,
Sings high in air, and seems to cleave the skies;
Then on the level plain its fury spends;
And Irus to the chief the welcome tidings sends.
Next in his turn Pygmalion strikes the globe;
On the upper half descends the erring club;
Along the green the ball confounded scours;
No lofty flight the ill-sped stroke impow'rs.
Thus, when the trembling hare descries the hounds,
She from her whinny mansion swiftly bounds;
O'er hills and fields she scours, outstrips the wind;
The hounds and huntsmen follow far behind.
Gambolia now afforded timely aid,
She o'er the sand the fainting ball convey'd;
Renew'd its force, and urg'd it on its way,
Till on the summit of the hill it lay.
Now all on fire the chiefs their orbs pursue,
With the next stroke the orbs their flight renew;
Thrice round the green they urge the whizzing ball,
And thrice three holes to great Castalio fall:
The other six Pygmalion bore away,
And saved a while the honours of the day.
Had some brave champion of the sandy field
The chiefs attended, and the game beheld,
With ev'ry stroke his wonder had increas'd,
And em'lous fires had kindled in his breast.
END OF CANTO II.
