An Address to his Elbow-chair, new cloath'd.
By the late WM SOMERVILE, Efq; Author of the Chace. *
Y dear companion, and my faithful friend! ·
If Orpheus taught the listening oaks to bend ;
If ftones and rubbish, at Amphion's call,
Danc'd into form, and built the Theban wall;
Why should't not thou attend my humble lays,
And hear my grateful harp refound thy praise ?
True, thou art fpruce and fine, a very beau;
But what are trappings, and external show ?
To real worth alone I make my court;
Knaves are my scorn, and coxcombs are my sport.
Once I beheld thee far less trim and gay;
Ragged, disjointed, and to worms a prey;
The fafe retreat of every lurking mouse;
Derided, fhun'd; the lumber of my house!
Thy robe, how chang'd from what it was before!
Thy velvet robe, which pleas'd my fires of yore!
'Tis thus capricious Fortune wheels us round;
Aloft we mount-then tumble to the ground.
Yet grateful then, my conftancy I prov'd;
I knew thy worth; my friend in rags I lov'd!
* Written towards the clofe of Mr. Somervile's life.
I lov'd thee, more; nor, like a courtier, fpurn'd
My benefactor, when the tide was turn'd.
With confcious fhame, yet frankly, I confefs,
That in my youthful days-I lov'd thee less.
Where vanity, where pleasure call'd, I stray'd;
And every wayward appetite obey'd.
But fage experience taught me how to prize
Myfelf; and how, this world: fhe bade me rife
To nobler flights, regardless of a race
Of factious emmets; pointed where to place
My blifs, and lodg'd me in thy foft embrace.
Here on thy yielding down I fit fecure;
And, patiently, what heav'n has fent, endure:
From all the futile cares of business free;
Not fond of life, but yet content to be:
Here mark the fleeting hours; regret the past;
And seriously prepare, to meet the last.
So fafe on fhore the penfion'd failor lies;
And all the malice of the storm defies :
With ease of body bleft, and peace of mind,
Pities the restless crew he left behind;
Whilft, in his cell, he meditates alone
On his great voyage, to the world unknown.
S o'er Afteria's fields I rove,
The blissful feat of peace and love,
Ten thousand beauties round me rise,
And mingle pleasure with furprize.
By nature bleft in every part,
Adorn'd with every grace of art,
This paradife of blooming joys
Each raptur'd fenfe, at once, employs.
But when I view the radiant queen,
Who form'd this fair enchanting fcene;
Pardon ye grots! ye crystal floods!
Ye breathing flow'rs! ye fhady woods!
Your coolness now no more invites ;
No more your murmuring ftream delights;
Your sweets decay, your verdure's flown;
My foul's intent on her alone.
ODE to a Friend wounded in a Duel.
OW long fhall tyrant Cuftom bind
In flavish chains the human mind?
How long fhall false fantastic Honour draw
'The vengeful sword, with fury fell,
And ranc'rous Malice dark as hell,
In fpight of Reason's rule, and Nature's eldest law?
Too many gallant youths have bled;
Too much of British blood been shed
By Briton's fwords, and that foul monster's laws :
Youths that might else have nobly dar'd ;
More glorious wounds and dangers shar'd
For Britain's juft defence, and virtue's injur'd cause.
So when the fierce Cadmean youth
Sprung from the dragon's venom'd tooth,
Each chief arose in shining armour drest:
With rage infpir'd, the furious band
Soon found a ready foe at hand,
And plung'd the pointed steel each in a brother's breaft.
Has Britain then no other foes,
That thus her fons their lives expose
To private war, and feuds, and civil fray?
Does Spain infult her flag no more?
Does Lewis yet his thoughts give o'er
Of univerfal rule, and arbitrary fway?
"Tis Britons' to fupport the law; 'Tis theirs ambitious kings to awe, And equal rights of empire to maintain. For this our fathers, brave and stout,
At Agincourt and Creffy fought,
And heap'd fam'd Blenheim's field with mountains of the
How will the Gallic monarch smile,
To fee the fons of Albion's ille
Their country's blod with ruthless weapons drain?
Themselves avenge the glorious day
When Marlb'rough swept whole hofts away,
And fent the frighted Danube purple to the main?
O fay, in this inglorious ftrife
Thy arm had robb'd thy friend of life,
What pangs, what anguish had thy bofom prov'd?
How hadft thou curs'd the cruel deed,
That caus'd the gallant youth to bleed,
Pierc'd by thy guilty fword, and flain by him he lov'd?
How did the fair Maria blame
Thy high-bred spirit's eagar flame,
That courting danger flighted her foft love?
Far other wreaths for thee she twin'd;
Far other cares for thee defign'd;
And for the lawrel crown, the myrtle chaplet wove.
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