A Song

AS o'er Asteria's fields I rove,

The blissful seat of peace and love,

Ten thousand beauties round me rise,

And mingle pleasure with surprise.

By Nature blest in every part,

Adorn'd with every grace of Art,

This paradise of blooming joys

Each raptur'd sense, at once, employs.

But when I view the radiant queen,

Who form'd this fair enchanting scene;

Pardon, ye grots! ye crystal floods!

Ye breathing flowers! ye shady woods!

Your coolness now no more invites;

No more your murmuring stream delights;

Your sweets decay, your verdure's flown;

My soul's intent on her alone.

William Somerville

Address to His Elbow-Chair, New Clothed

MY dear companion, and my faithful friend!

If Orpheus taught the listening oaks to bend:

If stones and rubbish, at Amphion's call,

Danc'd into form, and built the Theban wall;

Why should not thou attend my humble lays,

And hear my graceful harp resound thy praise?

  True, thou art spruce 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 safe retreat of every lurking mouse;

Derided, shunn'd; the lumber* of my house!     *lumber = junk

Thy robe how chang'd from what it was before!

Thy velvet robe, which pleas'd my sires of yore!

'Tis thus capricious Fortune wheels us round;

Aloft we mount--then tumble to the ground.

Yet grateful then, my constancy I prov'd;

I knew thy worth; my friend in rags I lov'd;

I lov'd thee more; nor, like a courtier, spurn'd

My benefactor, when the tide was turn'd.

With conscious shame, yet frankly, I confess,

That in my youthful days--I lov'd thee less.

Where vanity, where pleasure call'd, I stray'd;

And every appetite obey'd.

But sage Experience taught me how to prize

My self; and how, this world; she bade me rise

To nobler flights regardless of a race

Of factious emmets; pointed where to place

My bliss, and lodg'd me in thy soft embrace.

  Here on thy yielding down I sit secure;

And, patiently, what Heaven has sent, 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 safe on shore the pension's sailor lies;

And all the malice of the storm defies:

With ease of body blest, and peace of mind,

Pities the restless crew he left behind;

Whil'st, in his cell, he meditates alone

On his great voyage, to the world unknown.

William Somerville

Hunting-Song

BEHOLD, my friend, the rosy-finger'd Morn,

With blushes on her face

Peeps o'er yon azure hill;

Rich gems the trees enchase,

Pearls from each bush distill,

Arise, arise, and hail the light new-born.

Hark! hark! the merry horn call, come away!

Quit, quit thy downy bed;

Break from Amynta's arms;

Oh! let it ne'er be said,

That all, that all her charms,

Though she's as Venus fair, can tempt thy stay.

Perplex thy soul no more with cares below,

For what will pelf avail!

Thy courser paws the ground,

Each beagle cocks his tail,

They spend their mouths around,

While health, and pleasure, smiles on every brow.

Try, huntsmen, all the brakes, spread all the plain,

Now, now, she's gone away,

Strip, strip, with speed pursue;

The jocund god of day,

Who fain our sport would view,

See, see, he flogs his fiery steeds in vain.

Pour down, like a flood from the hills, brave boys,

On the wings of the wind

The merry beagles fly;

Dull Sorrow lags behind:

Ye shrill echoes, reply;

Catch each flying sound, and double our joys.

Ye rocks, woods, and caves, our music repeat:

The bright spheres thus above,

A gay, refulgent train,

Harmoniously move,

O'er yon celestial plain

Like us whirl along, in concert so sweet.

Now Puss threads the brakes, and heavily flies,

At the head of the pack

Old Fidler bears the bell,

Every foil he hunts back,

And aloud rings her knell,

Till, forc'd into view, she pants, and she dies.

In life's dull round thus we toil and we sweat;

Diseases, grief, and pain,

An implacable crew,

While we double in vain,

Unrelenting pursue,

Till, quite hunted down, we yield with regret.

This moment is ours, come live while ye may,

What's decreed by dark Fate

Is not in our own power,

Since tomorrow's too late,

Take the present kind hour:

With wine cheer the night, as sports bless the day.

William Somerville