Classic Poem

Thus , by the music, we may know
When noble wits a-hunting go,
Through groves that on Parnassus grow.

The Muses all the chase adorn;
My friend on Pegasus is borne;
And young Apollo winds the horn.

Having old Gratius in the wind,
No pack of critics e'er could find,
Or he know more of his own mind.

Here huntsmen with delight may read
How to choose dogs for scent or speed,
And how to change or mend the breed;

What arms to use, or nets to frame,
Wild beasts to combat or to tame;
With all the mysteries of that game.

But, worthy friend! the face of war
In ancient times doth-differ far
From what our fiery battles are.

Nor is it like, since powder known,
That man, so cruel to his own,
Should spare the race of beasts alone

No quarter now, but with the gun
Men wait in trees from sun to sun,
And all is in a moment done.

And therefore we expect your next
Should be no comment, but a text
To tell how modern beasts are vexed.

Thus would I further yet engage
Your gentle Muse to court the age
With somewhat of your proper rage;

Since none does more to Phaebus owe,
Or in more languages can show
Those arts which you so early know.