An Address to his Elbow-chair, new cloath'd.

By the late WM. SOMERVILE, Esq; Author of the Chace. 

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'st not thou attend my humble lays,
And hear my grateful 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, shun'd; the lumber of my house!
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 wayward appetite obey'd.
But sage experience taught me how to prize
Myself; 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 heav'n 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'd 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;
Whilst, in his cell, he meditates alone
On his great voyage, to the world unknown.