He did not yet close his literary labours. In the year 1742, a few months only before his death, he published _Field Sports_; a poem addressed to the Prince of Wales; and from Lady Luxborough’s letters we learn, that he had translated Voltaire’s Alzira, which, with several other pieces not published, were in her possession. One of these, written towards the close of life, is so descriptive of the old age of a sportsman, and exhibits so pleasing a picture of the temper and turn of mind of the author, we shall here insert. It is an “Address to his Elbow Chair, new clothed.” My dear companion, and my faithful friend! If Orpheus taught the listening oaks to bend, If stones and rubbish, at Amphion’s call, Danced 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, shunn’d, the lumber of my house! Thy robe, how changed from what it was before! Thy velvet robe, which pleased 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 proved; I knew thy worth; my friend in rags I loved; I loved 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 loved 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 lodged me in thy soft embrace. Here, on thy yielding down, I sit secure; And, patiently, what Heaven 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 bless’d, 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.