The Bowling-green

Where smooth and level as the Summer Main, A spacious Area opens on the Plain; While with descending Dews the Herbage sweats, Nor feels the rising Sun's intenser Heats, The sharpen'd Scythe prevents the grassy Height, And reaps the scanty Harvest of the Night: The rolling Stone renews its Morning Round, To crush the springing Turf, and sink the knotty Ground. And now the polish'd Globes, a num'rous Band, Prepar'd for Motion by the Artist's Hand; Glitt'ring with Oil, and splendid to the Sight, O'er the soft, verdant Surface speed their Flight. But least some Bowler should his Cast disown, By diff'rent Marks the diff'rent Orbs are known: For Gamesters vary; some prefer the Bowl, That byass'd wheels obliquely to the Goal: While others will a diff'rent Choice approve Of those, which in a Line directly move. The chosen Numbers part on either side, As, or Consent, or doubtful Lots divide: Each Chief assumes his Arms; when now behold The Jack exulting o'er the Surface roll'd; At which their missive Orbs the Bowlers aim, And who arrives the nearest, wins the Game. The Leader poises in his Hand the Bowl, And gently launches to the distant Goal: The current Orb prolongs its circling Course, Till by Degrees it loses all its Force. When now another o'er the Level bounds, And Orb succeeding Orb the Block surrounds: Scatter'd they lie, and barricade the Green, That scarce a single Bowl can pass between. When now with better Skill, and nicer Care, The dext'rous Youth renews the Wooden War, Beyond the rest his winding Timber flies, And works insinuating, and wins the Prize. But if perchance he sees, with Madness stung, The lagging Wood move impotent along; If its faint Motion languish on the way, And, short of Length, it press the verdant Lay: Nimbly he strides behind a-cross the Grass, And bending hovers o'er the rolling Mass; Least foul Disgrace should on his Arm redound, He blames the Rising-Rub and guilty Ground.

What sudden Laughter echoes o'er the Green, When some unlucky, artless Cast is seen; When the too pond'rous Lead with stubborn Force Allures the Globe from its appointed Course? The Bowler chafes, and fruitless Rage ensues, His Body to a Thousand Postures screws: He blames he knows not what, with angry Blood, He frets, he stamps, and damns th' erroneous Wood: Th' erroneous Wood his fruitless Rage disdains, And still its former, wayward Course maintains.

But if a Bowl, dismiss'd with equal Strength, Obtains exactly the intended Length, And, nicely passing thro' the crouding Balls, Prone on the passive Jack incumbent falls: With loud Applause the splitting Heav'ns they rend, And all the Caster and the Cast commend. When now the adverse Foe projects around His careful Eyes, and marks the ambient Ground: And, studious the contiguous Globes to part, He summons all his Strength and all his Art; Th' exerted Vigour of his Nerves applies, And rapid from his Arm the brandish'd Engine flies.

Scarce half so swiftly to th' Elëian Goal With rival Speed the whirling Chariots roll; While the fleet Axle mocks the lagging Wind, And leaves the flying Village far behind.

When, if the Wooden Guards immure the Foe, And break the Vengeance of the whirling Blow; If the conflicting Orbs are driv'n around, And, loosely scatter'd, strew th' Olympic Ground: He chides his Fate, his fervid Spleen boils high, Calls the Gods false, and Damns the guilty Sky.

But if his Bowl with easy Passage slide, And with a Clash the wedded Orbs divide; His Partners shout, the Croud espouse his Cause, And the wide Plain re-murmurs with Applause.

Mean while the Dog-Star burns with sultry Heat, And ev'ry Limb is drown'd in briny Sweat: They court the shady Breeze, and cool of Day, And from their Temples wipe the trickling Drops away.