The shadowy Night has nearly run her course Over the silent world--the cock repeats His warning note--behooves us to prepare For our expected sport. Now when the stars Slowly decrease, and the faint glimmering light, First trembles in the east, we hasten forth, To seek the rushing river's wandering wave. The doubtful gloom shall favour our approach, And should we through th' o'erhanging bushes view The dim-discovered flock, the well-aim'd shot Shall have insur'd success, nor leave the day To be consum'd in vain. For shy the game, Nor easy of access: the fowler's toils Precarious; but inur'd to ev'ry chance, We urge those toils with glee. E'en the broad sun, In his meridian brightness, shall not check Our steady labour; for some rushy pool, Some hollow willowy bank, the skulking birds May then conceal, which our stanch dogs shall pierce, And drive them clam'ring forth. Those tow'ring rocks, With nodding wood o'erhung, that faintly break Upon the straining eye, descending deep, A hollow basin form, the which receives The foaming torrent from above. Around Thick alders grow. We steal upon the spot With cautious step, and peering out, survey The restless flood. No object meets our eye. But hark what sound is that approaching near, "Down close," The wild-ducks come, and darting down, Throw up on ev'ry side the troubled wave; Then gayly swim around with idle play, With breath restrain'd, and palpitating heart, I view their movements, whilst my well-taught dogs Like lifeless statues crouch. Now is the time, Closer they join; nor will the growing light Admit of more delay--with fiery burst, The unexpected death invades the flock; Tumbling they lie, and beat the dashing pool, Whilst those remoter from the fatal range Of the swift shot, mount up on vig'rous wing, And wake the sleeping echoes as they fly. Quick on the floating spoil my spaniels rush, And drag them to the shore. * * * * * MISCELLANY. A more lively and yet poignant satire upon the wilful corruption of the stage, the degeneracy of the public taste, and the reigning follies of the British nation can scarcely be imagined than the following, which, with several more under the same signature, has appeared in a celebrated periodical work in London. _To the right worshipful John Bull, of the united kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland._ RESPECTED SIR,