Hark! the fhrill piper mounts on high,
The woods, the ftreams, the rocks reply,
To his far-founding melody.

Behold each labouring squeeze prepare
Supplies of modulated air.

Obferve Croudero's active bow,
His head ftil noddling to and fro,

His eyes, his cheeks, with raptures glow.
See, fee the bashful nymphs advance,
To lead the regulated dance;
Flying ftill, the fwains purfuing,
Yet with backward glances wooing.
This, this fhall be the joyous scene;
Nor wanton elves that skim the green
Shall be fo bleft, fo blythe, fo gay,
Or lefs regard what dotards say.
My Rofe fhall then your Thittle greet,
The Union fhall be more complete;
And, in a bottle and a friend,
Each national difpute shall end.

ANSWER TO THE ABOVE EPISTLE,

BY ALLAN RAMSAY.

SIR, I had your's, and own my pleasure,
On the receipt, exceeded measure.
You write with fo much fpirit and glee,
Sae fmooth, fae ftrong, correct, and free;
That any he (by you allow'd

To have fome merit) may be proud.
If that's my fault, bear you the blame,
Wha've lent me fic a lift to fame.
Your ain tours high, and widens far,
Bright glancing like the first-rate star,
And all the world beftow due praise
On the collection of your lays;
Where various arts and turns combine,
Which even in parts first poets fhine:
Like Mat and Swift ye fing with ease,
And can be Waller when you please.
Continue, fir, and fhame the crew
That's plagu'd with having nought to do,
Who fortune in a merry mood
Has overcharg'd with gentle blood,
But has deny'd a genius fit
For action or afpiring wit;

Such kenna how t' employ their time,
And think activity a crime:
Aught they to either do, or fay,
Or walk, or write, or read, or pray!
When money, their Factotum, 's able
To furnish them a numerous rabble,
Who will, for daily drink and wages,
Be chairmen, chaplains, clerks, and pages:
Could they, like you employ their hours
In planting these delighttul flowers,
Which carpet the poetic fields,
And lafting funds of pleafure yields;
Nae mair they'd gaunt and gove away,
Or fleep or loiter out the day,

Or waste the night damning their faula
In deep debauch, and bawdy brawls:
Whence pox and poverty proceed
An early eild, and spirits dead.
Reverie of you;-and him you love,

The mob of thoughtless lords and beaux,
Who in his ilka action shows
"True friendship, love, benevolence,
"Unftudy'd w, and manly sense."
Allow here what you've faid your fell,
Nought can b' expreft fo juft and well;
To him and her, worthy his love,
And every bleffing from above,
A fon is given, God fave the boy,
For theirs and every Som'ril's joy.
Ye wardins round him take your place,
And raise him with each manly grace;
Make his meridian virtues fhine,

To add fresh luftres to his line:
And many may the mother fee
Of fuch a lovely progeny.

Now, fir, when Boreas nae mair thuds
Hail, fnaw and fleet, frae blacken'd clouds;
While Caledonia's hills are green,
And a' her ftraths delight the een;
While ilka flower with fragrance blows,
And a' the year its beauty shows;
Before again the winter lour,
What hinders then your northern tour?
Be fure of welcome: nor believe
Those wha an ill report would give
To Ed'nburgh and the land of cakes,
That nought what's neceffary lacks.
Here plenty's goddess frae her horn
Pours fish and cattle, claith and corn,
In blyth abundance;-and yet mair,
Our men are brave, our ladies fair.
Nor will North Britain yield for fouth
Of ilka thing, and fellows couth,
To any but her fifter South.-

True, rugged roads are curfed driegh,
And fpeats aft roar frae mountains high:
The body tires-poor tottering clay,
And likes with eafe at hame to ftay;
While fauls ftride warlds at ilka stend,
And can their widening views extend.
Mine fees you, while you chearfu' roam
On fweet Avona's flowery howm,
There recollecting, with full view,
Thofe follies which mankind pursue;
While, confcious of fuperior merit,
You rife with a correcting spirit;
And, as an agent of the gods,
Lafh them with fharp fatyric rods :
Labour divine!-Next, for a change,
O'er hill and dale I fee you range,
After the fox or whidding hare,
Confirming health in pureft air;
While joy frae heights and dales resounds,
Rais'd by the hola, horn and hounds:
Fatigu'd, yet pleas'd, the chafe outrun,
I fee the friend and fetting fun,

Invite you to the temperate bicker,
Which makes the blood and wit flow quicker.
The clock ftrikes twelve, to reft you bound,
To fave your health by fleeping found.
Thus with cool head and healfome breaft
You fee new day ftream frae the east:
Then all the mufes round you shine,

Be long their aid-Your years and blesses, Your fervant Allan Ramfay wishes.

TO ALLAN RAMSAY,

Upon his publishing a second Volume of Poems. HAIL, Caledonian bard! whofe rural strains Delight the liftening hills, and cheer the plains! Already polifh'd by fome hand divine, Thy purer ore what furnace can refine? Careless of cenfure, like the fun, fhine forth, In native luftre, and intrinsic worth. To follow nature is by rules to write, She led the way, and taught the Stagirite. From her the critic's tafte, the poet's fire, Both drudge in vain, till the from heaven infpire: By the fame guide inftructed how to foar, Allan is now what Homer was before.

Ye chofen youths! who dare like him afpire,
And touch with bolder hand the golden lyre!
Keep nature ftill in view; on her intent,
Climb by her aid the dangerous steep afcent
To lafting fame. Perhaps a little art
Is needful, to plane o'er fome rugged part.;
But the most labour'd elegance and care,
T'arrive at full perfection muft despair.
Alter, blot out, and write all o'er again,
Alas! fome venial fins will yet remain.
Indulgence is to human frailty due,
Ev'n Pope has faults, and Addison a few;
But thofe, like mifts that cloud the morning ray,
Are loft and vanish in the blaze of day.
Though fome intruding pimple find a place
Amid the glories of Clarinda's face,
We fill love on, with equal zeal adore,
Nor think her lefs a goddess than before.
Slight wounds in no difgraceful scars fhall end,
Heal'd by the balm of fome good-natur'd friend.
In vain fhall canker'd Zoilus affail,
While Spence prefides, and candour holds the scale.
His generous breast, nor envy fours, nor fpite,
Taught by his founder's motto how to write,
Good manners guides his pen. Learn'd without
pride,

In dubious points not forward to decide.
If here and there uncommon beauties rife,
From flower to flower he roves with glad furprise.
In failings no malignant pleasure takes,
Nor rudely triumphs over small mistakes.
No naufeous praife, no biting taunts offend,
W'expect a cenfor, and we find a friend.
Poets, improv'd by his correcting care,
Shall face their foes with more undaunted air,
Stripp'd of their rags, fhall like Ulyffes fhine,
With more heroic port, and grace divine.
No pomp of learning, and no fund of fenfe,
Can e'er atone for loft benevolence.
May Wykeham's fons, who in each art excel,
And rival ancient bards in writing well,
While from their bright examples taught they
And emulate their flights with bolder wing.
From their own frailties learn the humbler part,
Mildly to judge in gentleness of heart!

[fing,

Such critics, Ramfay, jealous for our fame, Will not with malice infolently blame, But lur'd by praise the haggard muse reclaim. Retouch each line till all is just and neat, A whole of proper parts, a work almost complete, So when fome beauteous dame, a reigning toaft, The flower of Forth, and proud Edina's boast. Stands at her toilet in her tartan plaid, In all her richest head-geer trimly clad, The curious hand-maid, with obfervant eye, Correds the fwelling hoop that hangs awry; Through every plait her busy fingers rove, And now the plies below, and then above, With pleasing tattle entertains the fair, Each ribbon Imooths, adjusts each rambling hair, Till the gay nymph in her full luftre shine, And Homer's Juno was not half so fine.

TO THE

AUTHOR OF THE ESSAY ON MAN.

Was ever work to fuch perfection wrought;
How elegant the diction! pure the thought!
Not fparingly adorn'd with scatter'd rays,
But one bright beauty, one collected blaze:
So breaks the day upon the fhades of night,
Enlivening all with one unbounded light.

To humble man's proud heart, thy great defign;
But who can read this wondrous work divine,
So juftly plann'd, and fo politely writ,
And not be proud, and boast of human wit?

Yet juft to thee, and to thy precepts true,
Let us know man, and give to God his due;
His image we, but mix'd with courfe allay,
Our happiness to love, adore, obey;

To praife him for cach gracious boon beslow'd,
For this thy work, for every leffer good,
With proftrate hearts before his throne to fall,
And own the great Creator all in all.

The mufe, which should instruct, now entertains,
On trifling fubjects, in enervate strains;
Be it thy talk to fet the wanderer right,,
Point out her way in her aerial flight;
Her noble mien, her honours lost restore,
And bid her deeply think, and proudly foar.
Thy theme fublime, and eafy verfe, will prove
Her high defcent, and million from above.

Let others now tranflate; thy abler pen Shall vindicate the ways of God to men; In virtue's caufe fhall gloriously prevail, When the bench frowns in vain, and pulpits fail. Made wife by thee, whose happy ftyle conveys The pureft morals in the fofteit lays, As angels once, so now we mortals bold Shall climb the ladder Jacob view'd of old; Thy kind reforming mule fhall lead the way To the bright regions of eternal day.

EPISTLE TO MR. THOMSON,

ON THE FIRST EDITION OF HIS SEASONS.

So bright, fo dark, upon an April day, 1 i iiij

So high, fo low, the lark afpiring fings,

Or drops to earth again with folded wings;
So fmooth, fo rough, the fea that laves our fhores,
Smiles in a calm, or in a tempeft roars.
Believe me, Thomson, 'tis not thus I write,
Severely kind, by envy four'd or spite':
Nor would I rob thy brows to grace my own;
Such arts are to my honeft foul unknown.
I read thee over as a friend should read,
Griev'd when you fail, o'erjoy'd when you fucceed.
Why fhould thy mufe, born fo divinely fair,
Want the reforming toilet's daily care?
Dress the gay maid, improve each native grace,
And call forth all the glories of her face :
Studiously plain, and elegantly clean,
With unaffected fpeech, and easy mien,
Th' accomplish'd nymph, in all her best attire,
Courts fhall applaud, and proftrate crowds admire.
Difcretely daring, with a fiffen'd rein,
Firm in thy feat the flying fteed refrain.
Though few thy faults, who can perfection boaft?
Spots in the fun are in his luftre loft:
Yet ev'n those spots expunge with patient care,
Nor fondly the minuteft error fpare.
For kind and wife the parent, who reproves
The flightest blemish in the child he loves.
Read Philips much, confider Milton more;
But from their drofs extract the purer ore.
To coin new words, or to restore the old,
In fouthern bards is dangerous and bold;
But rarely, very rarely, will fucceed,
When minted on the other fide of Tweed.
Let perfpicuity o'er all prefide-

Soon halt thou be the nation's joy and pride.
The rhiming, jingling tribe, with bells and fong,
Who drive their limping Pegafus along,
Shall learn from thee in bolder flights to rife
To fcorn the beaten road, and range the fkies.
A genius fo refin'd, fo juft, fo great,
In Britain's ille fhall fix the mufe's feat,
And new Parnaffus fhall at home create :
Rules from thy works each future bard fhall
draw,

Thy works, above the critic's nicer law,
And rich in brilliant gems without a flaw.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
LADY ANNE COVENTRY.

Upon viewing her fine Chimney-piece of Shell-work.

THE greedy merchant ploughs the sea for gain, And rides exulting o'er the 'watery plain: While howling tempefls, from their rocky bed, Indignant break around his careful head.

The royal fleet the liquid waste explores, And fpeaks in thunder to the trembling fhores; The voice of wrath awak'd the nations hear, The vanquish'd hope, and the proud victors fear; Thofe quit their chain, and thefe refign tl.eir palm, While Britain's awful flag commands a calm.

The curious fage, nor gain nor fame pursues, With other eyes the boiling deep he views; Hangs o'er the cliff inquifitive to know

Whence breathe the winds that ruffle its fmooth face,

Qr ranks in claffes all the fishy race,
From thofe enormous moniters of the main,
Who in their world, like other tyrants, reign,
To the poor cockle-tribe, that humble band,'
Who cleave to rocks, or loiter on the strand.
Yet ev'n their shells the forming hand divine
Has, with diftinguifh'd luftre, taught to fhine.
What bright enamel and what various dyes!
What lively tints delight our wondering eyes!
Th' Almighty painter glows in every line:
How mean, alas! is Raphael's bold defign,
And Titian's colouring, if compar'd to thine!
Juftly fupreme let us thy power revere,
Thou fill it all fpace! all-beauteous every where,
Thy rifing fun with blushes paints the morn,
Thy fhining lamps the face of night adorn;
Thy flowers the meads, thy nodding trees the hills;
The vales thy paftures green, and bubbling rills;
Thy coral groves, thy rocks that amber weep,
Deck all the gloomy manfions of the deep;
Thy yellow fands diftinct with golden ore,
And these thy variegated fhells the fhore.
To all thy works fuch grandeur haft thou lent,
And fuch extravagance of ornament.
For the falfe traitor, man, this pomp and show!
A fcene fo gay, for us poor worms below!
No-for thy glory all these beauties rife,
Yet may improve the good, inftruct the wife.

1

You, madam, fprung from Beaufort's royal line, Who, loft to courts, can in your clofet fine, Beft know to ufe each bleffing he bestows, Beft know to praife the power from whence it flows shells in your hand the Parian rock defy, Or agat, or Ægyptian porphyry-More gloffy they, their veins of brighter dye. See where your rifing pyramids afpire, Your guests furpris'd the shining pile admire! In future times, if fome great Phidias rife, Whofe chiffel with his mistress nature vies, Who, with fuperior fkill, can lightly trace In the hard marble block the fefteft face: To crown this piece, fo elegantly neat, Your well wrought bufto fhall the whole complete; O'er your own work from age to age prefide, Its author once, and then its greatest pride.

ADDRESS

To bis Elbow-chair new-clothed. My dear companion, and my faithful friend! If Orpheus taught the listening oaks to bend; If ftones and rubbish, at Amphion's call, Danc'd into form, and built the Theban wall; Why shouldft not theu attend my humble lays, And hear my grateful harp refound thy praite? True, thou art fpruce and fine, à very beau; But what are trappings and external fhow? To real worth alone I make my court, Knaves are my fcorn, and coxcombs are my fport, Once I beheld thee far lefs trim and gay; Ragged, disjointed, and to worms a prey; The fafe retreat of every lurking moufe;

Thy robe how chang'd from what it was before!
Thy velvet robe, which pleas'd my fires of yore!
'Tis thus capricious fortune wheels us round;
Aloft we mount-then tumble to the ground.
Yet grateful then, my conftancy 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 confcious fhame, yet frankly, I confefs,
That in my youthful days-I lov'd thee lefs.
Where vanity, where pleasure call'd, I stray'd;
And every wayward appetite obey'd.

But fage experience taught me how to prize
Myfelf; and how, this world: fhe bade me rife
To nobler flights regardless of a race
Of factious emmets; pointed where to place
My blifs, and lodg'd me in thy foft embrace.

Here on thy yielding down 1 fit fecure;
And, patiently, what heaven has fent, endure;
From all the futile cares of business free;
Not fond of life, but yet content to be :
Here matk the fleeting hours; regret the past;
And seriously prepare to meet the laft.

So fafe on thore the penfion'd faiior lies; And all the malice of the ftorm defies: With ease of body bleft, and peace of mind, Pities the reflefs crew he left behind; Whilft, in his cell, he meditates alone On his great voyage, to the world unknown.

SONG.

As o'er Afteria's fields I rove,
The blissful feat of peace and love,
Ten thousand beauties round me rife,
And mingle pleasure with furprise.
By nature bleft in every part,
Adorn'd with every grace of art,
This paradife of blooming joys
Each raptur'd fenfe, at once, employs,
But when I view the radiant queen,
Who form'd this fair enchanting scene;
Pardon, ye grots! ye cryftal floods!
Ye breathing flowers! ye thady woods!
Your coolness now no more invites;
No more your murmuring stream delights;
Your sweets decay, your verdure's flown;
My foul's intent on her alone.

PARAPHRASE UPON A FRENCH SONG.

"Venge moi d'une ingrate maitreffe, "Dieu du vin, j'implore bon yvreffe.'

KIND relief in all my pain,
Jolly Bacchus hear my prayer,
Vengeance on th' ingrateful fair ¦
In thy fmiling cordial bowl,
Drown the forrows of my foul,
All thy deity employ,

Gild each gloomy thought with joy.
Jolly Bacchus fave, oh fave,
From the deep devouring grave,

Hafte away,

Hafte away,

Lash thy tigers, do not stay,
I'm undone if thou delay.
If I view thofe eyes once more,
Still fhall love, and still adore,
And be more wretched than before.
See the glory-round her face!
See her move!

With what a grace!—
Ye gods above!

Is the not one of your immortal race?—
Fly, ye winged Cupids, fly,

Dart like lightning through the sky:
Would ye in marble temples dwell,
The dear-one to my arms compel;
Bring her in bands of myrtle tied:
Bid her forget, and bid her hide,
All her fcorn, and all her pride.
Would ye that your flave repay
A fmoking hecatomb each day;
O restore

The beauteous goddess I adore;
O restore, with all her charms,
The faithlefs vagrant to my arms!

DEAR knight, how great a drudge is he
Who would excel in poetry!
And yet how few have learnt the art,
T' inform the head, or touch the heart!
Some, with a dry and barren brain,

Poor rogues! like coftive lap-dogs firain;
While others with a flux of wit,

The reader and their friends befh-t.

Would you (Sir Knight) my judgment know? He ftill writes worst who writes fo.fo.

In this the mighty fecret lies,

To elevate and to furprife:

Thus far my pen at random run,

The fire was out, the clock ftruck one. When, lo ftrange hollow murmurs from without, Invade my ears. In every quarter rous'd, The warring winds rufh from their rocky caves Tumultuous; the vapours dank, or dry, Beneath their standards rang'd, with lowering front Darken the welkin. At each dreadful fhock Oaks, pines, and elms, down to their mother earth Bend low their fuppliant heads: the nodding

towers

Menace deftruction, and old Edrick's honfe
From its foundation fhakes. The bellowing clouds
Burst into rain, or gild their fable skirts
With flakes of ruddy fire; fierce elements
In ruin reconcil'd! redoubled peals

Of ceafelefs thunder roar. Convulfions rend
The firmament. The whole creation ftands
Mure and appall'd, and trembling waits its deom.
And now perhaps, dear friend, you wonder
In

What a poor guilty wretch could do ; Then hear-(for, faith, I tell you true) 1 water'd, fhook my giddy head, Gravely broke wind, and went to bed.

UPON

MIRANDA'S LEAVING THE COUNTRY.

THE fun departing hides his head,
The lily and the rose are dead,

The birds forget to fing;
The cooing turtles now no more
Repeat their amorous ditties o'er,

But watch th' approaching spring. For foon the merry month of May Reitores the bright all-cheering ray;

Soft notes charm every grove: The flowers ambrofial incenfe breathe, And all above, and all beneath,

Is fragrance, joy, and love.
So when Miranda hence retires,
Each fhepherd only not expires:

How rueful is the fcene!
How the dull moments creep along!
No fportive dance, nor rural fong,

No gambols on the green.

Yet, when the radiant nymph appears,
Each field its richeft livery wears,

All nature's blith and gay;
The fwains tranfported with delight,
After a long and gloomy night,

Blefs the reviving day.

While thus, indulgent to our prayer
Kind heaven permitted us to share

A bleffing fo divine;
While fmiling hope gave fome relief,
And joys alternate footh'd our grief,
What fhepherd could repine?
But now-her fatal lofs we mourn,
Never, oh! never to return

To these deferted plains;
Undone, abandon'd to despair,
Alas! 'tis winter all the year
To us unhappy fwains.

Ye little loves, lament around;
With empty quivers ftrew the ground,
Your bows unbent lay down;
Harmless your wounds, pointless your darts,
And frail your empire o'er our hearts,

Till the your triumphs crown.

Ye nymphs, ye fawns, complaining figh;
Ye graces, let your treffes fly,

The sport of every wind:
Ye mimic echoes tell the woods,
Repeat it to the murmuring floods,

She's gone! fhe's gone! unkind!
Break, fhepherds, break each tunclefs reed,
Let all your flocks at random feed,

Each flowery garland tear;
Since wit and beauty quit the plain,
Paft pleasures but enhance our pain,
And life's not worth our care.

TO PHYLLIS.

THOUGH clofe immur'd, poor captive maid!
Young Danaë play'd a wanton's part;
The gold that in her lap was laid,
Soon found a paffage to her heart.
Ambitious Semele, beguil'd

By Juno's unrelenting hate,
Amid the bright deftruction fmil'd,
Enjoy'd her god, and dy'd in state.
The fwan on Leda's whiter breast,
Artful deceiver! neftling lay,
With joy the clafp'd her downy guest,
Fond of a bird fo foft and gay.
What boon can faithful merit share,

Where interest reigns, or pride, or show? 'Tis the rich banker wins the fair,

The garter'd knight, or feather'd bean.
No more my panting heart shall beat,

Nor Phyllis claim one parting groan ?
Her tears, her vows, are all a cheat,
For woman loves herself alone.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

THE EARL OF HALIFAX,
With the Fable of the two Springs.

O HALIFAX! a name for ever dear
To Phœbus, and which all the Nine revere;
Accept this humble pledge of my esteem,
So juftly thine, benevolence my theme.

In myftic tales, and parables, of old
Grave eastern feers inftructive leffons told;
Wife Greece from them receiv'd the happy plan
And taught the brute to pedagogue the man.
The matron Truth appears with better grace,
When well-wrought fables veil her reverend face:
Dry precept may inftruct, but can't delight,
While pleafing fictions all our powers excite.
Our bufy minds each faculty employ,
And range around, and start their game with joy;
Pleas'd with the chafe, make the rich prey their

own,

And glory in the conquefts they have won.
Fable alone can crown the poet's brow,
Upon his works immortal charms bestow:
And 'twere a fin that method to disprove,
Which Heaven has fix'd by fanctions from above.
My humble mufe in calm retirement roves
Near mofly fountains, and near fhady groves:
Yet there, ev'n there, her loyal hands would raife
Some rural trophy to her monarch's praife;
Inftruct those fountains and thofe groves to show,
What copious bleffings from his bounty dow;
While flowers and fhrubs blefs his propitious aid,
His urn refreshing, or protecting fhade.
Great friend of human kind: thy pious hand
Nor wounds to kill, nor conquers to command.
Let haughty tyrants of falfe glory dream,
Without remorfe pursue the bloody scheme;
To fame forbidden tread the lawless way,
And o'er the ravag'd world extend their (way!