Poems on Several Occasions :: :: University of Virginia Library

Attempt the Grandeur of thy Praise,
Or strow thy Urn with Tears?
Vain Piety! preposterous Grief!
In Wit's bright Orb, Thou shin'st th' acknowledg'd Chief!
And need'st no statelier Monument of Fame,
Than thy own Works, t'immortalize thy Name!
Far hence—I hear thy deathless Genius say—
Far hence, ye Vulgar; nor prophane my Clay.
Imperfect Praise to Slander is ally'd,
When to uncommon Virtue 'tis apply'd.
The World's united Panegyricks fail,
And, when we think we celebrate, we rail.
Yet, pardoning, smile on an ambitious Muse,
Who, with unwearied Pains,
Revolving o'er thy sacred Strains,
Fires at thy Flame, and by thy Light pursues.

Like old Elijah, drop some Gift of thine,
And, so transfer'd, be half thy Genius mine.
Unelegantly are my Pieces wrought,
How faint the Language! and how low the Thought!
But, when my Fancy's drest out from thy Store,
My Strokes will then be rude no more.
Thus, when the Nile, with its augmented Train,
Sweeps o'er the Memphian Plain,
Forms, without Life, the Refuse of the Flood!
Shoot all imperfect, from the teeming Mud,
Till the Sun's Heat, the Source of genial Day,
Informs the fashion'd Clay.

II.

But, oh, what Breast thy Spirit can contain?
Who cou'd, like Thee, th' inspiring God restrain?
What mounted Bard thy Pegasus cou'd sit?
Or bear, unstaggering, thy vast Load of Wit?

How shall I then, do thy fam'd Memory Right,
By such an offer'd Mite?
He, who wou'd measure well such vast Renown,
Must have a Thought, extensive, as thy own.
In vain, the advent'rous Bard invokes the Nine—
In vain, he sues for Aid, at Phoebus Shrine—
They're Bankrupts all! Buchanan broke them quite,
And, whosoe'er, henceforth, attempts to write,
Shou'd call on Him, t'inspire with Wit and Skill—
The Stock's his own! He deals it, as he will.
The World, perhaps, to minor Poets may
Some petty Reckonings pay—
At his vast Sum, we stand amaz'd, and cry
Arithmetick can never reach so high!
Yet 'tis some Worth to wonder at his Lays,
And, where we fail to speak, to think his Praise.

III.

Hail mightiest Genius of the honour'd North!
Scotia's prime Minister of Wit!
Renown'd in ev'ry Region for thy Worth!
And, in whose Style, an Angel might have writ!
Thy soaring Mind, with Eagle's Flight,
Wing'd, with undazled Eye, the Realms of Light!
Th' untravel'd Orb thou journeyd'st in thy Thought,
And, to thy World, hast their best Mysteries brought!
What Secret, that the Soul has Pow'r to know,
Too deep for thy Discernment lay?
Angels delighted seem'd, and flew to show
Their kindred Bard the Magazines of Day!
O what celestial Heat thy Genius fir'd,
When heav'nly David shone with all thy Flame!
Envy and Rage confess'd thy Muse inspir'd,
And paid unwilling Honours to thy Name!

So well did'st thou perform that dangerous Part,
That all, who, wondering, mark'd the Poet's Art,
Thought him, like David's self, made after God's own Heart!
Who, like Buchanan, dares, alone, engage
The pow'rful Vices of his Age?
In manly Satyr, nobly skill'd,
No Age, no Quality, he spar'd:
Crimes of no Kind escap'd the faithful Bard!
To Thrones and Altars he pursued and kill'd!
But, when his Muse the Tragic Pinions trys,
Behold how near, and yet how strong, he flys!
What moving Sentiments adorn his Page?
How solemn is his Rage?
O, when shall Scotia boast a Pen, expert
Like his, th' Historian's Talent to exert?

Who shall with equal Genius lengthen on
Th' immortal Work, by Him begun?
Who shall proceed with his detective Taste?
And paint the present Times, as he describ'd the Past?
Is the great Task, O Gordon, left to Thee?
Was is it not Heav'ns Decree,
That Thou, Buchanan's Equal—but in Verse—
Our Supplemental Annals should'st rehearse?
Well fare the Patriot Genius, who employs
His Industry, to benefit Mankind;
Who builds what Time, or Prejudice, destroys,
And finishes the Work our Sires design'd.

IV.

Our cold and gloomy Realm in Ignorance lay,
'Till, like the Kindler of the Day,
Buchanan shone the Shades away.

Rough were the antient Tracks, 'till He
Mark'd a fair Path to Immortality.
With cautious Secrecy, thro' mystick Veils
Of Allegories dark, and uncouth Tales,
(Which, for the Laiety to doubt, was Sin!)
Poetic Light had long been dimly shown,
And, in dull Hands, was almost Useless grown,
Till He, Defender of the Faith! came in.
The Knots, that they so artfully had ty'd,
And drawn so close, with superstitious Charms,
Disdaining to untie, he dar'd divide
With Alexander's Force, and Reason's Arms.
Empty Tradition, and the Cant of Schools,
Vanish'd before his conquering Rules.
The startled Oracles, at once, grew mute,
And own'd him Prophet absolute.

Hot thro' his Works his Genius glows!
There's Inspiration in his very Prose!
Nothing, unpolish'd, has he left behind!
Each Line's a Transcript of his Mind!
His Eloquence, ungloomy, loves to smile,
And strikes in such an apt and easy Style,
That the charm'd Reader yields his captive Heart,
By Force to Reason, and by Choice to Art.
Hence foreign Pens, impartial in his Praise,
Have own'd that Rome was conquer'd by his Lays.
Scotia, in Him, the Roman Bounds became
In Wit, as well as War!
He prov'd the Clime has Warmth to nourish Fame,
Tho', from the World and Sun divided far!

V.

Tho' the whole classic Store to Him was known,
Whate'er he writ was all his own.

Nor studied He, like modern Bards to steal,
Nor chose the scatter'd Glare of common Place.
To emulate the Antients was his Zeal—
But he outran them in the Race!
No Numbers, Theme, nor Strain,
Had Pow'r to give him Pain.
Nature sat easy in his flowing Lays,
And Art but serv'd to gild his gather'd Bays.
O how unequal are our vulgar Bards!
Drudges, who sell Opinion for Rewards!
Toiling, they strain'd for all they writ,
Curs'd with a painful Stranguary of Wit!
Or, if they pass a Piece in Haste,
What obvious Want of Taste!
All undigested the crude Metre lies,
And, like a lost Abortive, dies.

Buchanan's Works from no chance Stroke arose;
No shuffled Atoms did his World compose.
Well did he mark, where Wit's Foundation lay,
And, building sure, cou'd fear no swift Decay.
Finding, at best, pretending Poet's Rhimes
Faintly reflect the Shine of antient Times,
He, by the Sun, it self, did guide his Flight,
Nobly disdainful of a borrowed Light.
Fed from this unexhausted Store, his Flame
Must long burn clear, and brighten into Fame.
Such Patriarch Wit asserts the Pow'r
To live, till Time it self's no more!
Legions of scribling Names, a Nation's Curse!
Shall die, like Men of humble Prose, or worse—
But, when ev'n Milton's stock of Fame is spent,
Buchanan's Works shall keep their own old Rent.

That Earth, he honour'd, boasts but equal Date,
And both shall burn, at once, in one effulgent Fate.

VI.

Unhappy We, who, in our native Tongue,
Imprison short-liv'd Song.
Our Buildings, on a sandy Bottom rear'd,
Must soon lie level with the Plain:
Like Leaves of Trees, the Words, that late appear'd
So elegant, so forceful, and endear'd,
Shall fall, ere long; nor be reviv'd again.
So Life and living Languages agree—
Each, for its Date alone, can hope to be.
Our Spirit lives but while our Language lasts;
Our Fame can be no more, when that decays.
Alas! how soon the boasted Glory wastes!
How fading are our Lays!

Buchanan knew, and shun'd this Rock,
On which poor Moderns split—
The Cause why erring Strangers mock
Our Want of Learning, or of Wit.
His Mind, expanding, grasp'd at all Mankind,
And, for a World's wide Use, his Works design'd.
Now, hence, in ev'ry Realm they're current Coin;
All know, and own the Stamp divine,
And jarring Nations, in his Praises, join.
True, Schismaticks—for such in Verse are found,
As in Religion they abound—
Will never cease with empty Rage
To persecute the Worthies of their Age.
Homer by Momus was pursu'd,
And Moevius hunted after Maro's Blood.
What keeps the hoary Dennis still in Life,
But everlasting Enmity and Strife?

Nor, Friends, nor Foes, escape his common Lash:
If he gives Quarter, 'tis for Ready-Cash.
But, when unusual Beauties strike his Sight,
They, and their Authors are condemn'd outright,
Condemn'd!—that He may earn a Morsel by't.
O Man of Grin, say, had'st thou never spy'd
The Charms of Steele, of Addison, and Pope,
Woud'st thou not, desperate, long ere now have dy'd
By Fire, or Water, Razor, or by Rope?
Buchanan had his Criticks too;
Alive, his Merits fed a Few:
And dead, his Manes struggles with old Fate!
Welsted and Trap combine, at least to prate.
But what are vain and unregarded Elves,
Whose Writings die before Themselves?

Thou, Burman, of distinguish'd Worth and Name,
Woud'st Thou too stab the immortal Poet's Fame?
How many Gilders bought thy venal Pen,
To preface forth such Calumny and Spleen?
Hast Thou, at Last, consented to be vile?
Aod broke the Dutch Alliance with our Isle?

VII.

Accurst Attempt! Endeavour vain!
Buchanan's Character to stain.
An Antient grown, he soars away,
Unreach'd by Carrion Birds of Prey,
And, on their Arts, his Genius looks Disdain.
He liv'd on Earth, tho' Dangers hem'd him round,
Till venerable Age his Virtues crown'd;
Till Nature's Self grew weary to supply
A Soul, whose Call was so immensely large:

At hoary Years she let him die,
And gain'd her wish'd Discharge.
But to recruit her self, and store Mankind,
She seiz'd the Treasure of his Mind,
A Mind! which now, but Piecemeal, she imparts,
Uncapable of all the Sciences and Arts.
So fell the sacred Sybil, when her Breast
Of utmost Inspiration was possest.
What tho' he boasted not a proud Descent
From Ancestors, already great in Fame?
Nor left an Heir for future Ornament
Of his remember'd Name?
'Tis fit such Worth alone shou'd be
Its own great Founder and Posterity.
Riches and Empire are but empty Things,
Without the Glory Merit brings.

For me, I'd rather boast Buchanan's Wit,
Than, like his Pupil, such a Sovereign sit.
And what Man lives, who wou'd not rather chuse
Homer's inspiring Muse,
Than, like Achilles, Hero of his Pen,
Run bravely mad, and murder Men?

VIII.

How has this Poet's Wealth his Country bar'd,
And left it almost barren, to this Day?
So vast a Treasure this Engrosser shar'd,
That from Sixth James's Time,
Scotia has scarce been blest with Rhime!
So great her Wit's Decay!
Not common Bays our Poet's Temples crown'd,
When Hathornden and Sterling were renown'd;
When Aiton, Barclay, Scot, and Johnston shone;
When great Montrose, and fam'd Mackenzie, liv'd;

When Lauderdale, like Atlas, stood alone;
And in Pitcarn's bright Soul the Muses thriv'd.
Now, mungrel Herds the holy Ground prophane,
And crop the Muses sacred Soil, in vain.
We think we soar, while others know we creep,
And wake our selves to make a Thousand sleep.
Small is our Strength, and low our Credit grows,
And, o'er the Land of Verse, Prosaick Dullness flows.
'Tis true, that Virtue, sullen and retir'd,
Oft shines alone, and shuns to be admir'd.
She, round her Merit, casts a willing Shade,
And fears to be betray'd.
Hence not a Few, whose Souls are rais'd
Above the vulgar Throng,
Chuse rather to remain, unprais'd,
Than prove their Pow'r in Song.

Thus Graem and Murray shun to please,
And Scot and Bennet sanctify their Ease.
Thus Robertson, with native Fires, may roam,
And Boyd and Stevenson shine retir'd at Home.
But save us, gracious Heav'n, from those,
Who versify in Prose.
Let no enquiring Strangers judge our Worth,
By what profess'd Poetick Quacks bring forth.

IX.

But great Buchanan's Heav'nly Song
Will hallow our Parnassus long,
And sanctify, or screen, the tuneful Throng.
Beneath his Umbrage, now a youthful Race
Rises, observant of the Master's Pace.
Divinely fir'd, Edina's Sons appear,
And all the Badges of their Athens wear,

By the kind Godhead's special Licence, fit
For the great Cure and Ministry of Wit.
Some Souls, compleat by Nature spring Divine,
Nor wait for Ordination from the Nine;
Like Independants, for no Forms they care,
And, in their Talent, their Credentials wear.
Buchanan thus, by happy Genius blest,
Disdain'd to practice as the Muse's Priest;
But boldly Bishop'd it in Sacred Song,
And claim'd the Rev'rence of the wond'ring Throng.
Like his, my Sons, will your Meridian be!
The Dawn so bright, what mayn't we hope to see?
What is not due from Promise of your Youth?
North-British Muses will outsoar the South.
O let no Energy you boast,
Like a consuming Lamp, be lost.

Keeping that fiery Pillar in your Eye,
Improve, appear, and be more blest than I.

X.

Thrice happy Muses, who, by Fortune blest,
Need no Protection from th' unjudging Great!
But sing for Pleasure in a Calm of Rest,
And shame the Proverb of the Poet's Fate!
If, from above, great God, my Genius came,
If I possess one Spark of heav'nly Flame,
If e'er a Verse of mine had Luck to fit
Arbuthnot's Taste, and Malcom's Ear,
O keep me from the common Curse of Wit,
And give me some convenient Canaan here.
Happy the Bard, who, for the Muse's Sake,
From his dull Country driv'n,
In wiser Lands can Refuge take
As Earnest of a future Heav'n,

A Heav'n! where Priestly Vengeance never glows,
Nor dark Souls enter, all absorpt in Prose.
There Poets their sad Funerals survive,
And, in their better Part, are still alive.
They, and they only, fill the Thrones above!
No other Souls can suit so well
The Posts of Harmony and Love,
Whence Rebel-Angel Poets fell.
And, when all Vacancies shall be supply'd
With Bards elect, and next a-Kin
T'Angelick Forms, who ne'er their God defy'd,
The Gates of Heav'n, for ever shut, will take no others in.

See Welsted's Longinus, Trap's Prelectiones Poeticæ, and Burman's Preface to his Edition of Buchanan.