Classic Poem

So large the Bounty of those Woods , which give
What these spread Boards as largely yet receive!
So fair the Ven'son in their Forrests bred,
Which on these Tables fairer show, now Dead !
That which to praise, those which such Presents make,
Or these , which th' huge Presents all intire take,
We are in doubt whether each Dish apart,
Or Plenty we should most commend, or Art ?
All , we are sure, have equally exprest
A Royal Hunter Master of the Feast.

How many Parks and Chases call him Lord ?
That pay so vast a Tribute to his Board .
Those various Bodies that thus thick are strow'd
Cov'ring his Tables like another Wood ;
Which with their fertile Broods pil'd up so high ,
Show, as when once they darkned all the Sky ;
Both Flesh and Fowl , all that his Feasts adorn,
His Subjects are, and in his Forrests born.
The Natives of the Air , and of the Field ,
All beneath his Trees live , or in them build .
The Birds that from long flights abroad are come,
Find in his Boughs , their yong and little Home .
Couch'd in his Shades , the Deer , their Youth there led,
Their Shelter seek, their Food , and grassy Bed .
All to their Sov'reign 's Sports must fall, ev'n those

Whose Horns , or Tusks , did guard them from their Foes ;
'Scape not his Toils , by their arm'd Heads , or might ,
Nor from his Shafts are sav'd, by Heels , or Flight .
The noble Stag , who Subjects Darts disdain'd,
Pierc'd by his Prince , as with best Purple stain'd,
And brave in Wounds , gladly resigns his breath;
A prouder Name receiving from his death.
Deriding baser Toils , the haughty Boar
The Royal Spear dyes with his richest gore .
Both in their Walks , no Rival-Brute did know,
Nor of their Herd , nor Man 's, a Tyrant-Foe .
No Horse , nor Hounds , till now their shock could stand,
Preferr'd to perish by their Master's hand ;
To his victorious hunting-Arms they bow,
And his Lance , as his Scepter great allow.
From meaner Wounds preserv'd, and common Fate ,
Both , on the Triumphs of his Pleasures wait.

To him they ow, that they thus nobly bled ,
To him no less, that we commend them Dead .
Prepar'd they seem, and drest , in being chac't ,
More of the Hunter , than themselves they tast.
Each Bit all Ven'son is, and each Bit such,
As proves diviner Ven'son from his Touch .
As where his Dart had struck, it did infuse
A rich, a fragrant, and delicious Juice .
The Royal Hand that Seas'ning does impart,
Which far transcends all Relishes of Art .
So many Honours thus on these confer'd,
More than on the unhappier living Herd,
Thus from the rest distinguish'd; they appear
Rank'd with the other wild Provisions here.
Advanc'd by Favour to a prouder Place ,
Than what they in the Park possest, or Chase .
Dogs , in the number of the Waiters set,
Their Prey attend, with their Companions met,
The Game they caught, their silent Hopes pursue,
And hunt , though with less noise , yet still as true .

What they with sound of merry Horn did get,
And kill'd with Musick , is with Musick eat .
The Artists Sounds maintain so swift a Race ,
As they resemble in their Flight , the Chase .
They touch their Instruments so quick and small ,
We can but only hear them touch'd at all.
So quick their Notes , as Time does not advance
Divisions so short-liv'd in Minute-dance .
Small , as those Air with Whispers strook, does bear,
Notes , which are lost, long e're they reach the Ear .
Soft and swift , as the Spheres in Motion chime,
'Tis Angel's Musick , kept with Angel's Time .
So sung they, and so plaid , as they had prov'd
The self-same Passions , which in us they mov'd.
Our trembling Heart-strings , toucht with the same Hand
As that, which does their Instruments command.
Their Strokes return'd in Eccho 's all unseen
From Souls of the like Harmony within.
Whether Man's Love or Rage , they made their Theme ,
They wound our Spirits up , to each Extreme .
If Wars they boasted, or of Nymphs complain'd,
On our Affections both alike they gain'd.
Th' Italian Voices pleas'd , and mock'd us all,
Near us they rose , yet did at distance fall .
The Eunuch 's, vying with the Trumpet 's Throat ,
Which farther stretch't , or higher rais'd their Note .
Both teaching us with pleasure to compare
The different Effects, of wanton Air ;
When easie Nature does it free impart,
Or when constrain'd , and elevate with Art .
Voices so tender, and so sweetly thrill,
With Delight pierce the Sense , and Wonder fill.
Trumpets so soft, as gently stroak the Ear ,
Not wounding us with Pleasure so severe
As those that catch the Breaths of dying Men ,
Such Blasts as these, would make them live again .