zituar nguts, where no comederate prute
Joins in the bloody fray; but bird with bird
Justs in mid air. Lo! at his siege the hern,
Upon the bank of some small purling brook,
Observant stands to take his scaly prize,
Himself another's game. For mark behind
The wily falconer creeps : his grazing, horse
Conceals the treacherous foe, and on his fist.
Th' unhooded falcon sits: with eager eyes
She meditates her prey, and, in her wild

He introduces it, indeed, as a supplement to "The Chase, esiring w give some account of all the more polite entertainments of the field to those gentlemen who have had “the goodness to encourage them."

His occasional poems are very numerous, and embrace a variety of topics, familiar epistles, odes, translations or imitations, ballads, hunting songs, and fables; some of the latter are unfit to meet the eye of the general reader; among them, however, there are several which contain a fine moral, and they are rendered more effective by the interest of the story and the vividness of the descriptions.

Dr. Johnson limits his praise of Somerville to the admission, that “ he wrote very well for a gentleman;" a harsh and unjust conclusion; he is, at times, vigorous and elevated—and, in the treatment of a subject worthy of the Muse, yet presenting many difficulties, he has succeeded better than any other writer in our language. His minor productions are also frequently graceful and elegant, and always easy and

Next will I sing the valiant falcon's fame;
Aerial fights, where no confederate brute
Joins in the bloody fray ; but bird with bird
Justs in mid air. Lo! at his siege the hern,
Upon the bank of some small purling brook,
Observant stands to take his scaly prize,
· Himself another's game. For mark behind

The wily falconer creeps : his grazing, horse
Conceals the treacherous foe, and on his fist.
Th'unhooded falcon sits : with eager eyes
She meditates her prey, and, in her wild

Up springs the hern, redoubling every stroke,
Conscious of danger, stretches far away,
With busy pennons and projected beak,
Piercing th' opponent clouds: the falcon swift
Follows at speed, mounts as he mounts, for hope
Gives vigour to her wings. Another soon
Strains after to support the bold attack,
Perhaps a third. As in some winding creek,
On proud Iberia's shore, the corsairs sly
Lurk waiting to surprise a British sail,
Full freighted from Hetruria's friendly ports,
Or rich Byzantium; after her they scud,
Dashing the spumy waves with equal oars,
And spreading all their shrouds; she makes the main
Inviting every gale, nor yet forgets
To clear her deck, and tell th' insulting foe,
In peals of thunder, Britons cannot fear.
So flies the hern pursu'd, but fighting flies.
Warm grows the conflict, every nerve's employ'd;
Now through the yielding element they soar
Aspiring high, then sink at once, and rove
In trackless mazes through the troubled sky.
No rest, no peace. The falcon hovering flies
Balanc'd in air, and confidently bold
Hangs o'er him like a cloud, then aims her blow
Full at his destin'd head. The watchful hern
Shoots from her like a blazing meteor swift
That gilds the night, eludes her talons keen
And pointed beak, and gains a length of way.
Observe th' attentive crowd; all hearts are fix'd
On this important war, and pleasing hope
Glows in each breast. The'vulgar and the great,
Equally happy now, with freedom share
The common joy. The shepherd-boy forgets
His bleating care; the labouring hind lets fall
His grain ynsown; in transport lost, he robs
Th' expecting furrow, and in wild amaze
The gazing village point their eyes to heaven.
Where is the tongue can speak the falconer's cares,
"Twixt hopes and fears, as in a tempest tost?
His fluttering heart, his varying cheeks confess
His inward woe. Now like a wearied stag,
That stands at bay, the hern provokes their rage;

Covers his fatal beak, and cautious hides
The well-dissembled fraud. The falcon darts
Like lightning from above, and in her breast
Receives the latent death : down plump she falls
Bounding from earth, and with her trickling gore
Defiles her gaudy plumage. See, alas !
The falconer in despair, his favourite bird
Dead at his feet, as of his dearest friend
He weeps her fate; he meditates revenge,
He storms, he foams, he gives a loose to rage:
Nor wants he long the means; the hern fatigu'd,
Borne down by numbers yields, and prone on earth
He drops: his cruel foes wheeling around
Insult at will. The vengeful falconer flies
Swift as an arrow shooting to their aid;
Then muttering inward curses breaks his wings,
And fixes in the ground his hated beak;
Sees with malignant joy the victors proud
Smear'd with his blood, and on his marrow feast.

FROM THE CHASE

Where rages not Oppression ? Where, alas !
Is Innocence secure? Rapine and Spoil
Haunt ev’n the lowest deeps; seas have their sharks,
Rivers and ponds enclose the ravenous pike;
He in his turn becomes a prey; on him
Th’ amphibious otter feasts. Just is his fate
Deserv'd: but tyrants know no bounds; nor spears
That bristle on his back, defend the perch
From his wide greedy jaws; nor burnish'd mail
The yellow carp; nor all his arts can save
Th' insinuating eel, that hides his head
Beneath the slimy mud ; nor yet escapes
The crimson-spotted trout, the river's pride,
And beauty of the stream. Without remorse,
This midnight pillager, ranging around,
Insatiate swallows all. The owner mourns.
Th' unpeopled rivulet, and gladly hears.
The huntsman's early call, and sees with joy
The jovial crew, that march upon its banks