To William Somerville of Warwickshire Esq;
on reading several of his excellent Poems.
Sir, I have read, and much admire
Your Muse's gay and easy Flow,
Warm'd with that true Idalian Fire
That gives the bright and chearful Glow.
I con'd each Line with joyous Care,
As I can such from Sun to Sun;
And like the Glutton o'er his Fare
Delicious, thought them too soon done.
The witty Smile, Nature and Art,
In all your Numbers so combine,
As to complete their just Desert,
And grace them with uncommon Shine.
Delighted we your Muse regard,
When she like Pindar's spreads her Wings;
And Vertue being its own Reward,
Expresses by the Sister Springs.
Emotions tender croud the Mind,
When with the Royal Bard you go,
To sigh in Notes divinely kind,
The Mighty faln on Mount Gilbo.
Much surely was the Virgin's Joy,
Who with the Iliad had your Lays;
For e'er, and since the Siege of Troy
We all delight in Love and Praise.
These Heaven-born Passions, such desire,
I never yet cou'd think a Crime;
But first-rate Vertues which inspire
The Soul to reach at the Sublime.
But often Men mistake the Way,
And pump for Fame by empty Boast,
Like your gilt Ass, who stood to bray,
Till in a Flame his Tail he lost.
Him th'incurious Bencher hits,
With his own Tale, so tight and clean,
That while I read, Streams gush, by Fits
Of hearty Laughter, from my Een.
Old
Chaucer, Bard of vast Ingine,
Fontain and Prior, who have sung
Blyth Tales the best; had they heard thine
On Lob, they'd own'd themselves out-done.
The Plot's pursu'd with so much Glee,
The too officious Dog and Priest,
The 'Squire oppress'd, I own, for me,
I never heard a better Jest.
POPE well describ'd an Omber 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 natural, 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 blest 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 conquering 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'LE 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 blest with all you wou'd 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 cou'd enlarge—but if I shou'd
On what you've wrote, my Ode wou'd run
Too great a length—Your Thoughts so croud,
To note them all, I'd ne'er have done.
Accept this Offering of a Muse,
Who on her Pictland Hills ne'er tires;
Nor shou'd (when Worth invites) refuse
To sing the Person she admires.
