The Chace A Poem. To which is added, Hebbinol, or the Rural Games: A Burlesque Poem, in Blank verse. By William Somerville; The Fourth Edition |
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TO THE AUTHOR OF The CHACE. |
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 | The Chace |  |
xiii
TO THE AUTHOR OF The CHACE.
Once more, my Friend, I touch the trembling Lyre,And in my Bosom feel poetick Fire.
For thee I quit the Law's more rugged Ways,
To pay my humble Tribute to thy Lays.
What, tho' I daily turn each learned Sage,
And labour thro' the unenlighten'd Page:
Wak'd by thy Lines, the borrow'd Flames I feel,
As Flints give Fire when aided by the Steel.
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Thy rural Scenes spring fresh into my Mind.
Thy Genius in such Colours paints the Chace,
The real to fictitious Joys give place.
When the wild Musick charms my ravish'd Ear,
How dull, how tasteless Handel's Notes appear!
Even Farenelli's Self the Palm resigns,
He yields—but to the Musick of thy Lines.
If Friends to Poetry can yet be found,
Who, without blushing, Sense prefer to Sound;
Then let this soft, this Soul-enfeebling Band,
These warbling Minstrels quit the beggar'd Land.
They but a momentary Joy impart,
'Tis you, who touch the Soul, and warm the Heart.
How tempting do thy sylvan Sports appear!
Ev'n wild Ambition might vouchsafe an Ear,
Might her fond Lust of Pow'r a-while compose,
And gladly change it for thy sweet Repose.
No fierce, unruly Senates threaten here,
No Axe, no Scaffold, to the View appear,
No Envy, Disappointment, and Despair.
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You step from Exercise to learned Ease;
Turn o'er each Classick Page, each Beauty trace,
The Mind unweary'd in the pleasing Chace.
Oh! would kind Heav'n such Happiness bestow,
Let Fools, let Knaves, be Masters here below.
Grandeur and Place, those Baits to catch the Wise,
And all their pageant Train, I pity and despise.
J. Tracy.
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