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

Reading your Works, and looking o'er the List
Of generous Patrons, who your Muse assist,
I felt a Pleasure, thrilling thro' my Veins,
That, by Degrees, inspir'd the following Strains.
The following Strains, ingenious Bard, impart,
Without Reserve, the Language of my Heart.
No Season's late, to prove my Muse your Friend;
'Tis yours to pardon what I fondly send.

269

A friendly Letter needs no studied Phrase:
Art looks affected in familiar Lays.
To diff'rent Themes a diff'rent Style is fit,
And he, who hits it, is the wisest Wit.
What obvious Blunders some conceited Bards,
Who rhime for Sport, or scribble for Rewards,
For Want of genuine Inspiration make?
They, like Night-Wanderers This for That mistake.
Sliding, they fall, and, in their soaring, strain.
Their Toil is trivial, and their Pleasure Pain.
Describing Streams, and drawing Carpet-ground,
They bounce the Air, and dun our Ears with sound.
Attempting Scenes of Blood and Death to sing,
They cool our Spirits, as they moult their Wing.
The Bard, who knows his Muses' Strength aright,
Proportions well his Language to his Flight:

270

Beyond his Sphere he labours not to shine.
This Praise, O Ramsay, is deserv'dly thine.
Knowing the Themes adapted to your Skill,
None else you sing, and never sing 'em ill.
Nature sits easy in what you rehearse,
And smiles Distinction on your flowing Verse.
Writing to you, your happy Way I'd chuse;
Who copies Thine, has Nature for his Muse.
Thoughts from the Subject, Words from Thoughts arise,
The Words all Musick, and the Thoughts all Wise.

By various Avocations, leisure Time
Is not allow'd me, to declare in Rhime,
How much I value each, particular, Piece!
How frequent Readings more Desire encrease!
What Beauties glow in ev'ry finish'd Line!
What Judgment form'd, and manag'd, each Design!

271

The mighty Task, for casual Verse unfit,
Requires much Time, and more than B---t's Wit.
B---t, in friendly Frolick, show'd his Skill—
I leave to Criticks, whether well, or ill.
'Tis mine to praise—for what is got by Spite?
For Pleasure, not to sully Fame, I write.
Like you, I look on surly Censurers down,
Yet, more than others, cou'd reproach my own.
Good Sense and Nature, like eternal Truth,
Will always flourish with unfading Youth.
True Worth the Test of Time will bravely stand,
And silent Rev'rence from its Foes command.

But, if I may distinguish, from the Rest,
A Master-piece, or, what I think is best:
Tho' all you've writ deserve my Muse's Praise,
My favourite Christ's Kirk merits most the Bays.

272

There Nature shines, and there the Charms of Art.
Display Low-life, and catch the Reader's Heart.
Humour gives Judgment an engaging Grace,
And royal James to you resigns his Place.
Rare Prince, whose Bays were richer than his Crown!
Rare Bard, to whom that Prince transfers Renown!
So Merit ever stronger proves than Name,
And Fame it self admits Degrees of Fame.
While I, with Justice, what is publish'd praise,
I blame the Want, I mourn for, in your Lays.
Profuse of comick and diverting Wit,
You seldom on a serious Subject hit.
Seldom a Thought on Life's great Business spend.
So far you disregard the Muses' End,
(Nor for my Freedom think me less your Friend.)

273

From Heav'n your sacred Inspiration came.
Too faint Returns you breathe of heav'nly Flame.
Facetious Lines we, once, with Joy repeat;
They're gay Deserts, but too, too, weakly Meat!
Religious, Verse from such a popular Pen,
Might, more than Preaching, tame ungovern'd Men.
Your sad Neglect, it seems, the Clergy took—
I find no Rev'rend Names before your Book.
If e'er the World a second Volume crave,
Dear Ramsay, show you sometimes can be grave.
Prior, a Bard of equal Fame! is proud
T'appear, on some Occasions, greatly good.
And Hill, himself, his Seraph Muse employs
On sacred Themes, and spurns at trifling Joys.
Humour awhile may, like a Meteor, last,
But solemn Verse will ever stand the Test.

274

Thus antient Poets gain'd eternal Fame:
The noblest Garlands crown the noblest Flame.

I, thrown by Fate amid the Syren Charms,
Too oft, like you, forsake Religion's Arms.
Nor feel I Pain for ev'ry devious Verse,
That Friends, or Humour, tempt me to rehearse.
Yet, when cool Judgment rules my Muse again,
With Salem's King, I own, that all is vain.
We never more improve the Talents giv'n,
Than, when our Works are most ally'd to Heav'n.
While persecuted by malicious Tongues
Of partial Zealots, for my well-meant Songs,
To You, no Bigot, I declare my Mind,
And prove my Foes dishonest, as unkind:
But Priests will still, where Craft prevails, be blind.
Whom they resolve to banish from their Fold,
No Means can save, but pow'rful Bribes of Gold.

275

Good Sense, and Truth in naked Dress, in vain,
'Gainst holy Wrath their Stations wou'd maintain.
Ill-temper'd Zeal, like Powder fir'd, drives on;
The Object, mark'd, is sure to be undone.

But whither does my Fancy, reinless, rove?
How far from first Intention am I drove?
Minds, one way turn'd, the Forms of Art forget:
Freedom of Speech makes Intercourse compleat.
So Rivers, meeting, mix their mighty Store,
And o'er the Mounds in rude Meanders roar.

O happy Ramsay, whom no Sects pursue!
To whom all Parties yield a righteous Due!
Plac'd in a lucky Sphere of Life, you shine:
The Great and Small to raise your Fame combine.
The lowly, one of their own Rank admire,
For 'tis but rare they boast celestial Fire.

276

The noble Smile, to see themselves outshone,
And, more than Art, the Pow'r of Nature own.
All gladly give the Palm your Genius claims,
And none your Muses' gay Productions blames.
Whate'er is wanting, what she sings is well,
And shews the Seeds that in your Bosom dwell.
A Man's a Man, altho' not sev'n Foot high—
Anacreon was no Dwarf in Poetry.
Tho' Homer shone the mighty Soul of Verse,
The minor Poets sweetly could rehearse.
Without Hill's Strength, and Pope's harmonious Flow,
The Muse's Fire in Gay and Me may glow.

Proceed, my Friend, to tame the savage Foes,
Who grin at all but their cogenial Prose;
Reform the Taste of Caledonia's Brood:
Your Way must take, as easiest understood.

277

By small Degrees, the Language will refine,
'Till Sterling English in our Numbers shine.
Then, ev'n our vulgar, shall, delighted, read
More polish'd Strains, and on their Beauties feed.

I joy to see the Scotian Youth display
Such early Dawnings of a glorious Day!
Great Things from Promise of their Muse is due!
Things! to a long, beclouded Nation new!
The World shall own, that as our Soldiers fight,
Our rising Poets, as illustrious, write.
The Senate, Pulpit, and the Bar, shall tell
What Energy can make the Man excel.
They, who their Boast to Inspiration owe,
Shall, o'er their Fellows, just Distinction show.
Succeed my Wishes, ye propitious Pow'rs,
And make, at length, the British Glory ours.

278

I, late, an humble Helper to the Nine,
Who joy'd to see my Country's Glory shine,
Fond, to my Pow'r, to wipe Reproach away,
And 'midst the Snows a blazing Flame display,
Now, doom'd by my inexorable Foes,
Attach'd to Dullness, and enslav'd by Prose,
Have bid my Friends and native Air adieu,
And Fortune in more gracious Realms pursue;
Here, from my Feet, the Dust, with Sorrow, throw,
And, where stiff Cant can never reach me, go.

Where'er, O Ramsay, Chance my Course may bend,
Be thou, as I am, an unshaken Friend.
Away Despair, inglorious Fears, be gone,
I'll hope the best.—'Tis Virtue leads me on!

A Poem, by Mr. Ramsay.

King James the Fifth of Scotland, began the Poem call'd Christ's Kirk.