AN EPISTLE FROM MR. SOMERVILLE.
NEAR fair Avona's silver tide,
Whose waves in soft meanders glide,
I read to the delighted swains
Your jocund songs and rural strains.
Smooth as her streams your numbers flow,
Your thoughts in vary'd beauties show,
Like flow'rs that on her borders grow,
While I survey, with ravish'd eyes,
This friendly gift, (1) my valu'd prize,
Where sister arts, with charms divine,
In their full bloom and beauty shine,
Alternately my soul is blest:
Now I behold my welcome guest,
That graceful, that engaging air,
So dear to all the brave and fair:
Nor has th' ingenious artist shown
His outward lineaments alone,
But in th' expressive draught design'd
The nobler beauties of his mind;
True friendship, love, benevolence,
Unstudied wit and manly sense.
Then as your book I wander o'er,
And feast on the delicious store,
(Like the laborious busy bee,
Pleas'd with the sweet variety,)
With equal wonder and surprise,
I see resembling portraits rise.
(1) Lord Somerville was pleased to send me his own picture, and Mr. Ramsay's Works. In 1730, Somerville concluded a bargain with James Lord Somerville for the reversion of his estate at his death. His connection with Lord Somerville, probably occasioned his poetical correspondence with Ramsay, who was patronized by that nobleman.
Brave archers march in bright array,
In troops the vulgar line the way:
Here the droll figures slily sneer,
Or coxcombs at full length appear:
There woods and lawns, a rural scene,
And swains that gambol on the green.
Your pen can act the pencil's part,
With greater genius, fire, and art.
Believe me, bard, no hunted hind
That pants against the southern wind,
And seeks the streams thro' unknown ways;
No matron in her teeming days,
E'er felt such longings, such desires,
As I to view those lofty spires,
Those domes where fair Edina shrouds
Her tow'ring head amid the clouds.
But oh! what dangers interpose !
Vales deep with dirt, and hills with snows,
Proud winter-floods, with rapid force,
Forbid the pleasing intercourse.
But sure we bards, whose purer clay
Nature has mixt with less allay,
Might soon find out an easier way.
Do not sage matrons mount on high,
And switch their broom-sticks thro' the sky;
Ride post o'er hills, and woods, and seas,
From Thule to the Hesperides? (1)
And yet the men of Gresham own,
That this and stranger feats are done
By a warm fancy's power alone.
This granted, why can't you and I
Stretch forth our wings and cleave the sky?
(1) The Scilly islands were so called by the ancients, as Mr. Camden observes.
Since our poetic brains, you know,
Than theirs must more intensely glow.
Did not the Theban swan take wing,
Sublimely soar, and sweetly sing?
And do not we, of humbler vein,
Sometimes attempt a loftier strain,
Mount sheer out of the reader's sight,
Obscurely lost in clouds and night?
Then climb your Pegasus with speed, I'll meet thee on the banks of Tweed; Not as our fathers did of yore,
To swell the flood with crimson gore;
Like the Cadmean murd'ring brood,
Each thirsting for his brother's blood;
For now all hostile rage shall cease,
Lull'd in the downy arms of peace,
Our honest hands and hearts shall join
O'er jovial banquets, sparkling wine.
Let Peggy at thy elbow wait,
And I shall bring my bonny Kate.
But hold:-oh! take a special care
T'admit no prying kirkman there;
I dread the penitential chair.
What a strange figure should I make,
poor abandon'd English rake;
A squire well born, and six foot high,
Perch'd in that sacred pillory!
Let spleen and zeal be banish'd thence,
And troublesome impertinence,
That tells his story o'er again;
Ill-manners and his saucy train,
And self-conceit, and stiff-rumpt pride,
That grin at all the world beside;
Foul scandal, with a load of lies,
Intrigues, rencounters, prodigies,
Fame's busy hawker, light as air,
That feeds on frailties of the fair:
Envy, hypocrisy, deceit,
Fierce party rage, and warm debate;
And all the hell-hounds that are foes
To friendship and the world's repose.
But mirth instead, and dimpling smiles,
And wit, that gloomy care beguiles;
And joke, and pun, and merry tale,
And toasts, that round the table sail;
While laughter, bursting thro' the crowd
In vollies, tells our joys aloud.
Hark! the shrill piper mounts on high,
The woods, the streams, the rocks reply
To his far-sounding melody.
Behold each lab'ring squeeze prepare
Supplies of modulated air:
Observe Croudero's active bow,
His head still nodding to and fro,
His eyes, his cheeks with raptures glow:
See, see the bashful nymphs advance,
To lead the regulated dance.
Flying still, the swains pursuing,
Yet with backward glances wooing.
This, this shall be the joyous scene;
Nor wanton elves that skim the green,
Shall be so blest, so blyth, so gay,
Or less regard what dotards say.
My rose shall then your thistle greet,
The union shall be more complete;
And in a bottle and a friend,
Each national dispute shall end.
AN ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING.
SIR, I had yours, and own my pleasure,
On the receipt, exceeded measure.
You write with so much sp'rit and glee,
Sae smooth, sae strong, correct, and free,
That any he (by you allow'd
To have some merit) may be proud.
If that's my fault, bear you the blame,
Wha've lent me sic a lift to fame.
Your ain tow'rs high, and widens far,
Bright glancing like a first-rate star,
And all the world bestow due praise
On the Collection of your lays;
Where various arts and turns combine,
Which even in parts first poets shine :
Like Matt and Swift ye sing with ease,
And can be Waller when you please.
Continue, Sir, and shame the crew
That's plagu'd with having nought to do;
Whom fortune in a merry mood
Has overcharg'd with gentle blood,
But has deny'd a genius fit
For action or aspiring wit;
Such kenna how t' employ their time,
And think activity a crime.
Ought they to either do or say,
Or walk, or write, or read, or pray,
When money, their factotum's able
To furnish them a numerous rabble,
Who will, for daily drink and wages,
Be chairmen, chaplains, clerks, and pages?
Could they, like you, employ their hours
In planting these delightful flowers,
|