 | Poems on Several Occasions |  |
290
TO Mr. A--- D---,
On seeing a Specimen of his POETRY.
As, when, thro' barren Wilds of trackless Sand,
Th' eternal Curse of hot Arabian Land!
The wandering, weary, breathless Traveller goes,
Nor where to meet with wish'd Refreshment knows;
Till, sudden, rising, in his dubious Way,
A cooling Stream, whose clear Meanders play
Thro' Sunburnt Banks, and brighten up the Day,
Sweetly surpriz'd, to find a Blessing plac'd,
In that forlorn, inhospitable, Waste,
Prostrate, he lays his Lifeless Limbs supine,
And, grateful to its Origin Divine,
Luxuriant feasts, and calls the Water Wine.
So I, dear D---, long distress'd to find
Our Native Scotia to the Muse unkind;
Pain'd to survey such Multitudes of Men,
Without the Compass of Apollo's Ken;
At each Discovery of a Bard I make,
The utmost Pleasure, Life can yield, partake.
With the old Hebrew Sage, I wish Mankind
Were Prophets all—to Poetry inclin'd;
For I'd not have them Priests, of a Prosaic Mind.
Th' eternal Curse of hot Arabian Land!
The wandering, weary, breathless Traveller goes,
Nor where to meet with wish'd Refreshment knows;
Till, sudden, rising, in his dubious Way,
A cooling Stream, whose clear Meanders play
Thro' Sunburnt Banks, and brighten up the Day,
291
In that forlorn, inhospitable, Waste,
Prostrate, he lays his Lifeless Limbs supine,
And, grateful to its Origin Divine,
Luxuriant feasts, and calls the Water Wine.
So I, dear D---, long distress'd to find
Our Native Scotia to the Muse unkind;
Pain'd to survey such Multitudes of Men,
Without the Compass of Apollo's Ken;
At each Discovery of a Bard I make,
The utmost Pleasure, Life can yield, partake.
With the old Hebrew Sage, I wish Mankind
Were Prophets all—to Poetry inclin'd;
For I'd not have them Priests, of a Prosaic Mind.
How great, how welcome, was my late Surprise,
When your Essays saluted first my Eyes?
How blest to meet, where Poets are so few,
A Kindred Mind! a second D--- too!
Be this thy Praise; for I can praise no more:
A D--- is, at least, worth half a Score.
O may you, like the first immortal Name,
Break thro' hard Fate, and raise an equal Fame;
While I, who, singly, long have serv'd the Muse,
In that Poetic Province most refuse;
Proud of your Friendship, studious of your Aid,
Record, with double Zeal, the Dictates of the Maid.
When your Essays saluted first my Eyes?
292
A Kindred Mind! a second D--- too!
Be this thy Praise; for I can praise no more:
A D--- is, at least, worth half a Score.
O may you, like the first immortal Name,
Break thro' hard Fate, and raise an equal Fame;
While I, who, singly, long have serv'd the Muse,
In that Poetic Province most refuse;
Proud of your Friendship, studious of your Aid,
Record, with double Zeal, the Dictates of the Maid.
Oft, as I forward dart a curious Eye
Into the Depths of dark Futurity,
With fond Delight, I comprehend the Time
When Scotia's Sons shall rise in deathless Rhime;
When Phœbus, who affords it longest Days,
Shall crown us too with everlasting Bays.
I see, Prophetic, Crowds of Bards inspir'd,
Their Country's Glory! by the World admir'd!
No more a Poet rising now and then,
As in dull Realms where Nature grudges Men;
But new Buchanans every where abound,
And Caledonia rival holy Ground.
Again our Thule shall Distinction boast,
And Bards, like Stars, shine brighter by the Frost.
Into the Depths of dark Futurity,
With fond Delight, I comprehend the Time
When Scotia's Sons shall rise in deathless Rhime;
When Phœbus, who affords it longest Days,
Shall crown us too with everlasting Bays.
293
Their Country's Glory! by the World admir'd!
No more a Poet rising now and then,
As in dull Realms where Nature grudges Men;
But new Buchanans every where abound,
And Caledonia rival holy Ground.
Again our Thule shall Distinction boast,
And Bards, like Stars, shine brighter by the Frost.
Assist, dear Youth, in this great Cause of Wit,
And high among your Country's Patriots sit.
Produce the Fires, that in your Bosom dwell:
You need but write, to shew you can excel.
And high among your Country's Patriots sit.
Produce the Fires, that in your Bosom dwell:
You need but write, to shew you can excel.
| Poems on Several Occasions | |