 | Poems on Several Occasions |  |
303
TO Aaron Hill, Esq
To you, great Man, and my distinguish'd Friend,
A Writ of Zeal and Vanity I send,
From fair Edina, Caledonian Pride!
Where I, a-while, (so help me God!) reside.
A Writ of Zeal and Vanity I send,
From fair Edina, Caledonian Pride!
Where I, a-while, (so help me God!) reside.
Stiff, and unlabour'd, as our Northern Climes,
You'll find the Genius of your Mitchell's Rhimes;
Yet rather chose I, to deserve your Frown,
Than not the Debts of generous Favours own.
In vain, the Pow'r of Absence wou'd remove
The fix'd Impressions of obliging Love.
Never, by me, can Friendship be forgot:
I challenge Death its Memory to blot.
The humane Soul may change its Place, and State;
But Gratitude and Love on its Existence wait.
You'll find the Genius of your Mitchell's Rhimes;
Yet rather chose I, to deserve your Frown,
Than not the Debts of generous Favours own.
In vain, the Pow'r of Absence wou'd remove
The fix'd Impressions of obliging Love.
304
I challenge Death its Memory to blot.
The humane Soul may change its Place, and State;
But Gratitude and Love on its Existence wait.
Yet pardon, Sir, th' Impertinence of Verse,
To such, as you, 'tis Boldness to rehearse
In measur'd Phrase; I own my self too free:
But you have made an Impudent, of Me.
Your kind Indulgence brass'd my Muse's Brow:
Your Candour will forgive her Kindness, now.
To such, as you, 'tis Boldness to rehearse
In measur'd Phrase; I own my self too free:
But you have made an Impudent, of Me.
Your kind Indulgence brass'd my Muse's Brow:
Your Candour will forgive her Kindness, now.
O cou'd I imitate your lofty Lays,
Abhorrent from the vulgar Flights to Praise!
But who, like Hill, can raise his ev'ry Thought,
And sing, as boldly, as your Gideon fought?
High o'er the verseful Throng, you stand, alone,
Asserting boundless Fancy's rightful Throne:
Others their soft, their sickly, Numbers boast,
Where all the sacred Energy is lost.
Them Soul-less Readers eagerly admire,
And, with uplifted Eyes, at every Line expire.
Harmonious Sounds supply the Want of Sense,
And Inspiration sinks, in flowing Eloquence!
A different Taste (I thank thee, Heav'n!) is mine;
Let me have Verse, enforc'd by Heat Divine.
I love the Lays, that, like a Genius, rise,
And strike the Soul, with Wonder and Surprize;
Where innate Virtues tow'r a Milton's Flight,
And steer the Work, with Maro's Judgment, right.
Give me the Poet, whose prodigious Thought,
(Tho' to the Plainness of Prose-writing brought)
Can still its Godlike Dignity maintain,
And just Applause of true Discernment gain.
Abhorrent from the vulgar Flights to Praise!
But who, like Hill, can raise his ev'ry Thought,
And sing, as boldly, as your Gideon fought?
High o'er the verseful Throng, you stand, alone,
Asserting boundless Fancy's rightful Throne:
305
Where all the sacred Energy is lost.
Them Soul-less Readers eagerly admire,
And, with uplifted Eyes, at every Line expire.
Harmonious Sounds supply the Want of Sense,
And Inspiration sinks, in flowing Eloquence!
A different Taste (I thank thee, Heav'n!) is mine;
Let me have Verse, enforc'd by Heat Divine.
I love the Lays, that, like a Genius, rise,
And strike the Soul, with Wonder and Surprize;
Where innate Virtues tow'r a Milton's Flight,
And steer the Work, with Maro's Judgment, right.
Give me the Poet, whose prodigious Thought,
(Tho' to the Plainness of Prose-writing brought)
Can still its Godlike Dignity maintain,
And just Applause of true Discernment gain.
306
But I, no Critick! cautious, must forbear,
To publish what may meet Damnation here.
Tho' us'd to Freedom, in more Sunny Climes,
Here must I padlock my rebellious Rhimes.
'Tis best to stifle all uncommon Thoughts,
Where Elegancies are arraign'd, as Faults.
To publish what may meet Damnation here.
Tho' us'd to Freedom, in more Sunny Climes,
Here must I padlock my rebellious Rhimes.
'Tis best to stifle all uncommon Thoughts,
Where Elegancies are arraign'd, as Faults.
How wou'd you wonder at my alter'd Case,
Cou'd you behold me walk, with Spanish Pace,
Affected Gravity, and solemn Face?
In Coffee-houses, wage a War with Wit!
At Church, as formal, as the Parson, sit,
With Eyes, new-disciplin'd precisely right,
Both when to wink, and how to turn the white!
While making Visits, quarrel with the Age!
Lampoon the Muses, and the modern Stage!
Declaim against new-fashion'd Coats and Wigs!
And worry all the Independent Whigs!
Still, thus restrain'd, had I but liv'd, and wrote,
I had, long since, fair Testimonials got.
Perhaps, in Honour of my Dullness, too,
I had e'en grac'd a Pulpit-Throne, ere now:
And, like cogenial Craftsmen, learnt the Way,
T'enrich my self, and dupe the World astray:
An useful Art, in which the Priests excel!
—But Gordon best their Mysteries can tell.
Cou'd you behold me walk, with Spanish Pace,
Affected Gravity, and solemn Face?
In Coffee-houses, wage a War with Wit!
At Church, as formal, as the Parson, sit,
With Eyes, new-disciplin'd precisely right,
Both when to wink, and how to turn the white!
While making Visits, quarrel with the Age!
Lampoon the Muses, and the modern Stage!
Declaim against new-fashion'd Coats and Wigs!
And worry all the Independent Whigs!
307
I had, long since, fair Testimonials got.
Perhaps, in Honour of my Dullness, too,
I had e'en grac'd a Pulpit-Throne, ere now:
And, like cogenial Craftsmen, learnt the Way,
T'enrich my self, and dupe the World astray:
An useful Art, in which the Priests excel!
—But Gordon best their Mysteries can tell.
Mean while, a Priest to Phoebus and the Nine,
My Stipend scarce affords inspiring Wine:
(So be my Faults, whatever Faults there be,
Imputed to the Times, and not to me.)
This, by the Spirit of my Verse you'll guess,
And wonder I shou'd venture on the Press.
But think, my Friend, what's Heresy with you,
With us is honest, Orthodox, True-Blue.
'Tis Odds, but my Prosaic Numbers please;
For Readers here love Verses writ with Ease.
Mankind (and who can blame them?) relish best
The Entertainments, suited to their Taste.
Hence our Trans-Tweedale Poets, when they print,
(Tho' you shou'd swear you see no Beauty in't.)
Affect a Sort of Writing, that goes down,
Like sugar'd Plumbs, in this devoted Town.
Thus Clark, and Ker, write Palinodes and Sonnets,
Adapted to the Genius of Blue Bonnets;
While Hamiltoun, and Pennycuick, compose,
To the same Tune, a Sort of jingling Prose.
Ev'n Poet Ramsay, in Parnassus fam'd,
The common-Gutherum of the Muses nam'd!
(Tho' Ramsay cou'd assert the true Sublime,)
Intent on Cash, pursues the vulgar Rhime.
'Twou'd break his Stock o'er common Vogue to rise!
Above our Hemisphere there's nought but hungry Skies.
How great the Curse, if such, alone, shou'd stand
The modern Classicks of my native Land?
A higher Spirit did our Country boast,—
But ah! the antient Energy how lost!
Douglas, Buchanan, Drummond, and the rest,
Of Fame immortal! different Sense express'd.
Heav'ns! what Ideas fill'd each mighty Mind!
Their Works appear'd the Mirrour of Mankind!
Nor judg'd the Readers worse than Poets writ:
They ne'er paid Money, but for Sterling Wit.
Then Giants liv'd!—but stop, my pious Muse,
And you, my Friend, my melting Grief excuse.
Then Scotia was a Kingdom, fam'd! and free!
Each Subject then his native Prince might see!
Kings, in Succession, grac'd the ancient Throne!
Nor sought, nor envy'd Nations, not their own!
Beneath their Influence, Arts and Arms cou'd live,
And every Thing, but modern Vices, thrive.
The Roman Eloquence they Captive made,
And dar'd their conquering Pow'rs our Glory to invade
But ah! how faln! How low our Honours lie!
—Yet pass we this severe Reflection by,
And hail the Sister-Lands! O may they prove
Rivals in Virtue, Loyalty, and Love;
By George's Wisdom, and resistless Might,
Abroad still conquer, and at Home unite.
My Stipend scarce affords inspiring Wine:
(So be my Faults, whatever Faults there be,
Imputed to the Times, and not to me.)
This, by the Spirit of my Verse you'll guess,
And wonder I shou'd venture on the Press.
But think, my Friend, what's Heresy with you,
With us is honest, Orthodox, True-Blue.
308
For Readers here love Verses writ with Ease.
Mankind (and who can blame them?) relish best
The Entertainments, suited to their Taste.
Hence our Trans-Tweedale Poets, when they print,
(Tho' you shou'd swear you see no Beauty in't.)
Affect a Sort of Writing, that goes down,
Like sugar'd Plumbs, in this devoted Town.
Thus Clark, and Ker, write Palinodes and Sonnets,
Adapted to the Genius of Blue Bonnets;
While Hamiltoun, and Pennycuick, compose,
To the same Tune, a Sort of jingling Prose.
Ev'n Poet Ramsay, in Parnassus fam'd,
The common-Gutherum of the Muses nam'd!
(Tho' Ramsay cou'd assert the true Sublime,)
Intent on Cash, pursues the vulgar Rhime.
309
Above our Hemisphere there's nought but hungry Skies.
How great the Curse, if such, alone, shou'd stand
The modern Classicks of my native Land?
A higher Spirit did our Country boast,—
But ah! the antient Energy how lost!
Douglas, Buchanan, Drummond, and the rest,
Of Fame immortal! different Sense express'd.
Heav'ns! what Ideas fill'd each mighty Mind!
Their Works appear'd the Mirrour of Mankind!
Nor judg'd the Readers worse than Poets writ:
They ne'er paid Money, but for Sterling Wit.
Then Giants liv'd!—but stop, my pious Muse,
And you, my Friend, my melting Grief excuse.
Then Scotia was a Kingdom, fam'd! and free!
Each Subject then his native Prince might see!
310
Nor sought, nor envy'd Nations, not their own!
Beneath their Influence, Arts and Arms cou'd live,
And every Thing, but modern Vices, thrive.
The Roman Eloquence they Captive made,
And dar'd their conquering Pow'rs our Glory to invade
But ah! how faln! How low our Honours lie!
—Yet pass we this severe Reflection by,
And hail the Sister-Lands! O may they prove
Rivals in Virtue, Loyalty, and Love;
By George's Wisdom, and resistless Might,
Abroad still conquer, and at Home unite.
Yet judge aright, nor misconstruct my Sense:
We want not Spirits, bold in Wit's Defence;
Men of just Taste, and Elegance refin'd,
Whose Names adorn the Arts, that most adorn the Mind.
Long may such Patrons grace our antient Isle!
Ne'er may we want a Stair, and an Argyle!
The Maillands, by Hereditary Right,
Are fix'd the Muses' Glory and Delight,
Since Lauderdale, from Maro, snatch'd the Bays,
And, on his Name, entail'd a more than mortal Praise.
We want not Spirits, bold in Wit's Defence;
Men of just Taste, and Elegance refin'd,
Whose Names adorn the Arts, that most adorn the Mind.
311
Ne'er may we want a Stair, and an Argyle!
The Maillands, by Hereditary Right,
Are fix'd the Muses' Glory and Delight,
Since Lauderdale, from Maro, snatch'd the Bays,
And, on his Name, entail'd a more than mortal Praise.
Arts rise and fall, like other transient States:
Both they, and we, are govern'd by the Fates.
Perhaps, tho' now, the popular Taste is low,
And here and there our noble Spirits glow;
The Youth, with Godlike Majesty avow'd,
Will break, effulgent, from the common Cloud.
Already, some, disdaining servile Ways,
Begin to shew their Rapture in their Lays.
May they improve, with happier Skill, to sing
Sublimest Notes, and strike the boldest String.
'Twere vain for me, by Fools and Priests, pursu'd,
To hope Success, where I'm not understood.
'Twou'd vex me too, to see a Blockhead's Name,
Distinguish'd with the Patrons of my Fame.
May none, ye Pow'rs, but Men of Taste, incline,
To stand Subscribers to a Work of mine;
A select List wou'd be, indeed, my Pride!
A Mob is ever on the blundering Side!
Both they, and we, are govern'd by the Fates.
Perhaps, tho' now, the popular Taste is low,
And here and there our noble Spirits glow;
The Youth, with Godlike Majesty avow'd,
Will break, effulgent, from the common Cloud.
Already, some, disdaining servile Ways,
Begin to shew their Rapture in their Lays.
May they improve, with happier Skill, to sing
Sublimest Notes, and strike the boldest String.
312
To hope Success, where I'm not understood.
'Twou'd vex me too, to see a Blockhead's Name,
Distinguish'd with the Patrons of my Fame.
May none, ye Pow'rs, but Men of Taste, incline,
To stand Subscribers to a Work of mine;
A select List wou'd be, indeed, my Pride!
A Mob is ever on the blundering Side!
When shall I next Augusta's Courts admire?
When re-assume my long-neglected Lyre?
O how I long, amid the tuneful Train,
To grasp the Glories of a raptur'd Strain!
With You and Dennis, Pope and Congreve, sit,
And shine, renoun'd, in ev'ry Kind of Wit:
With grateful Taste, enjoy the Hours of Tea,
In Clio and Miranda's Company:
And, when I'm blest with more compleat Delight,
Retire with fair Ophelia, all the Night;
In her soft Arms, forget the Woes of Life,
And rise to Heav'n—for there's a Heav'n in Wife.
When re-assume my long-neglected Lyre?
O how I long, amid the tuneful Train,
To grasp the Glories of a raptur'd Strain!
With You and Dennis, Pope and Congreve, sit,
And shine, renoun'd, in ev'ry Kind of Wit:
With grateful Taste, enjoy the Hours of Tea,
In Clio and Miranda's Company:
313
Retire with fair Ophelia, all the Night;
In her soft Arms, forget the Woes of Life,
And rise to Heav'n—for there's a Heav'n in Wife.
Time flies apace—mean while, my gen'rous Friend,
My Love to all our old Concerns commend.
Balfour and Bowman share, with you, my Heart:
'Tis spoke, by Nature, that takes Place of Art.
A hasty Letter has no Need of Dress,
So God b'ye, Sir—now, Boy, bespeak the Press.
My Love to all our old Concerns commend.
Balfour and Bowman share, with you, my Heart:
'Tis spoke, by Nature, that takes Place of Art.
A hasty Letter has no Need of Dress,
So God b'ye, Sir—now, Boy, bespeak the Press.
| Poems on Several Occasions | |