And now in this new field, with some applause, He clear’d hedge, ditch, and double post, and rail, And never craned, and made but few ‘faux pas,’ And only fretted when the scent ’gan fail. He broke, ’tis true, some statutes of the laws Of hunting—for the sagest youth is frail; Rode o’er the hounds, it may be, now and then, And once o’er several country gentlemen. But on the whole, to general admiration He acquitted both himself and horse: the squires Marvell’d at merit of another nation; The boors cried ‘Dang it? who ’d have thought it?’—Sires, The Nestors of the sporting generation, Swore praises, and recall’d their former fires; The huntsman’s self relented to a grin, And rated him almost a whipper-in. Such were his trophies—not of spear and shield, But leaps, and bursts, and sometimes foxes’ brushes; Yet I must own,—although in this I yield To patriot sympathy a Briton’s blushes,— He thought at heart like courtly Chesterfield, Who, after a long chase o’er hills, dales, bushes, And what not, though he rode beyond all price, Ask’d next day, ‘If men ever hunted twice?’ He also had a quality uncommon To early risers after a long chase, Who wake in winter ere the cock can summon December’s drowsy day to his dull race,— A quality agreeable to woman, When her soft, liquid words run on apace, Who likes a listener, whether saint or sinner,— He did not fall asleep just after dinner; But, light and airy, stood on the alert, And shone in the best part of dialogue, By humouring always what they might assert, And listening to the topics most in vogue; Now grave, now gay, but never dull or pert; And smiling but in secret—cunning rogue! He ne’er presumed to make an error clearer;— In short, there never was a better hearer. And then he danced;—all foreigners excel The serious Angles in the eloquence Of pantomime;—he danced, I say, right well, With emphasis, and also with good sense— A thing in footing indispensable; He danced without theatrical pretence, Not like a ballet-master in the van Of his drill’d nymphs, but like a gentleman. Chaste were his steps, each kept within due bound, And elegance was sprinkled o’er his figure; Like swift Camilla, he scarce skimm’d the ground, And rather held in than put forth his vigour; And then he had an ear for music’s sound, Which might defy a crotchet critic’s rigour. Such classic pas—sans flaws—set off our hero, He glanced like a personified Bolero; Or, like a flying Hour before Aurora, In Guido’s famous fresco which alone Is worth a tour to Rome, although no more a Remnant were there of the old world’s sole throne. The ‘tout ensemble’ of his movements wore a Grace of the soft ideal, seldom shown, And ne’er to be described; for to the dolour Of bards and prosers, words are void of colour.