For this what darling son shall feel thy fire,
God of th' unerring bow and tuneful lyre?
Our vows are heard---Attend, ye vocal throng!
Somervile meditates th' advent'rous song.
Bold to attempt, and happy to excel,
His num'rous verse the huntsman's art shall tell.
From him, ye British youths! a vig'rous race,
Imbibe the various science of the Chase;
And while the well-plann'd system you admire,
Know Brunswick only could the work inspire;
A Georgic Muse awaits Augustan days,
And Somerviles will sing when Fredericks give the
CE more, my friend! I touch the trembling lyre, And in my bosom feel poetic fire;
For thee I quit the law's more rugged ways,
To pay my humble tribute to thy lays.
What tho' I daily turn each learned sage,
And labour thro' the unenlighten'd page!
Wak'd by thy lines the borrow'd flames I feel,
As flints give fire when aided by the steel.
Tho' in sulphureous clouds of smoke confin'd,
Thy rural scenes spring fresh into my mind,
Thy genius in such colours paints the Chase,
The real to fictitious joys give place.
When the wild music charms my ravish'd ear,
How dull, how tasteless, Handel's notes appear!
Ev'n Farinelli's self the palm resigns;
He yields--but to the music of thy lines.
If friends to poetry can yet be found,
Who without blushing sense prefer to sound,
Then let this soft, this soul-enfeebling band,
These warbling minstrels, quit the beggar'd land;
They but a momentary joy impart;
'Tis you who touch the soul and warm the heart.
How tempting do thy silvan sports appear!
Ev'n wild Ambition might vouchsafe an ear,
Might her fond lust of pow'r a while compose,
And gladly change it for thy sweet repose.
No fierce unruly senates threaten here,
No axe, no scaffold, to the view appear,
No envy, disappointment, and despair.
Here, bless'd vicissitude! whene'er you please
You step from exercise to learned ease;
Turn o'er each classic page, each beauty trace,
The mind unweary'd in the pleasing Chase.
Oh! would kind Heav'n such happiness bestow,
Let fools, let knaves, be masters here below.
Grandeur and place, those baits to catch the wise,
And all their pageant train, I pity and despise.
Pope well describ'd an Ombre game,
And "
King revenging Captive Queen;"
He merits; but had won more fame
If author of your "Bowling-Green."
You paint your parties, play each bowl,
So nat'ral, just, and with such ease,
That while I read, upon my soul!
I wonder how I chance to please!
Yet I have pleas'd, and please the best;
And sure to me laurels belong,
Since British fair, and 'mongst the best,
Somervile's consort likes my song.
Ravish'd I heard th' harmonious fair
Sing, like a dweller of the sky,
My verses with a Scotian air;
Then saints were not so bless'd as I.
In her the valu'd charms unite;
She really is what all would seem; Gracefully handsome, wise and sweet: 'Tis merit to have her esteem.
Your noble kinsman, her lov'd mate,
Whose worth claims all the world's respect,
Met in her love a smiling fate,
Which has, and must have, good effect.
You both from one great lineage spring,
Both from de Somervile, who came
With William, England's conqu’ring king,
To win fair plains and lasting fame.
Whichnour he left to's eldest son:
That first-born chief you represent :
His second came to Caledon,
From whom our Somer'ille takes descent.
On him and you may Fate bestow
Sweet balmy health and cheerful fire,
As long 's ye'd wish to live below,
Still bless'd with all you would desire.
O Sir! oblige the world, and spread
In print those and your other lays;
This shall be better'd while they read,
And after-ages sound your praise.
I could enlarge---but if I should
On what you've wrote, my Ode would run Too great a length---Your thoughts so crowd, To note them all I'd ne'er have done.
Accept this off'ring of a Muse
Who on her Pictland hills ne'er tires; Nor should (when worth invites) refuse To sing the person she admires.
ALLAN RAMSAY TO THE AUTHOR,
Acknowledging the Receipt of an Epistle from him.
SIR, I had yours, and own my pleasure,
On the receipt, exceeded measure.
You write with so much sp'rit and glee,
Sae smooth, sae strong, correct, and free,
That any he by you allow'd
To have some merit may be proud.
If that's my fault bear you the blame,
Wha've lent me sic a lift to fame.
Your ain tow'rs high, and widens far,
Bright glancing like a first-rate star,
And all the world bestow due praise
On the Collection of your lays;
Where various arts and turns combine,
Which ev'n in parts first poets shine.
Like Mat. and Swift ye sing with ease,
And can be Waller when you please.
Continue, Sir, and shame the crew
That's plagu'd with having nought to do.
Who Fortune, in a merrry mood,
Has overcharg'd with gentle blood,
But has deny'd a genius fit
For action or aspiring wit ;
Such kenna how to t'employ their time,
And think activity a crime:
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