To William Somervile, Esq; on his Poem call'd The Chace

hile you, Sir, gain the steep Ascent to Fame, And Honours due to deathless Merit claim; To a weak Muse a kind Indulgence lend, Fond with just Praise your Labours to commend, And tell the World, that s her Friend. Her Incense guiltless of the Forms of Art Breaths all the Huntsman's Honesty of Heart; Whose Fancy still the pleasing Scene retains Of s Villa, and s Plains: Joys, which from Change superiour Charms receiv'd, The Horn hoarse-sounding by the Lyre reliev'd: When the Day crown'd with rural, chaste Delight, Resigns obsequious to the festive Night; The festive Night awakes th' harmonious Lay, And in sweet Verse recounts the Triumphs of the Day.

Strange! that the Muse should leave so long, The the Sport of s Kings, unsung! Distinguish'd Land! by Heav'n indulg'd to breed The stout, sagacious Hound, and gen'rous Steed; In vain! while yet no Bard adorn'd our Isle, To celebrate the glorious sylvan Toil. Far this what darling Son shall feel thy Fire, God of th' unerring Bow, and tuneful Lyre? Our Vows are heard——attend, ye vocal Throng, meditates th' advent'rous Song. Bold to attempt, and happy to excell, His num'rous Verse the Huntsman's Art shall tell. From him, ye Youths, a vig'rous Race, Imbibe the various Science of the Chace; And while the well-plan'd System you admire, Know, only could the Work inspire: A Georgic Muse awaits Days, And will sing, when give the Bays.