After the fox or whidding hare,
Confirming health in purest air;
While joy frae heights and dales refounds,
Rais'd by the hola, horn and hounds :
Fatigu'd, yet pleas'd, the chace out-run,
I see the friend, and fetting fun,
Invite you to the temperate bicquor,
Which makes the blood and wit flow quicker,
The clock ftrikes twelve, to reft you bound,
To fave your health by fleeping found.
Thus with cool head and healfome breast
You fee new day ftream frae the east:
Then all the Mufes round you shine,
Infpiring every thought divine;
Be long their aid-Your years and blesses,
Your fervant Allan Ramfay wishes.
Upon his publishing a Second Volume of Poems.
HAIL, Caledonian bard! whose rural strains
Delight the liftening hills, and chear the plains ! Already polish'd by fome hand divine,
Thy purer ore what furnace can refine ?
Careless of cenfure, like the fun, fhine forth,
In native luftre, and intrinfic worth.
To follow nature is by rules to write,
She led the way, and taught the Stagirite.
From her the critic's tafte, the poet's fire,
Both drudge in vain till the from heaven inspire:
By the fame guide inftructed how to foar,
Allan is now what Homer was before.
Ye chofen youths who dare like him afpire,
And touch with bolder hand the golden lyre!
Keep nature still in view; on her intent,
Climb by her aid the dangerous fteep afcent
To lafting fame. Perhaps a little art
Is needful, to plane o'er fome rugged parts
But the moft labour'd elegance and care,
T'arrive at full perfection must despair.
Alter, blot out, and write all o'er again,
Alas! fome venial fins will yet remain.
Indulgence is to human frailty due,
Ev'n Pope has faults, and Addison a few;
But thofe, like mifts that cloud the morning ray,
Are loft and vanish in the blaze of day.
Though fome intruding pimple find a place
Amid the glories of Clarinda's face,
We ftill love on, with equal zeal adore,
Nor think her lefs a goddess than before.
Slight wounds in no difgraceful fears fhall end,
Heal'd by the balm of fome good-natur'd friend.
In vain fhall canker'd Zoilus affail,
While Spence prefides, and candor holds the fcale.
His generous breaft, nor envy fours, nor fpite,
Taught by his founder's motto how to write,
* William of Wykeham, "Manners maketh man."
Good-manners guides his pen. Learn'd without pride,
In dubious points not forward to decide.
If here and there uncommon beauties rise,
From flower to flower he roves with glad furprize.
In failings no malignant pleasure takes,
Nor rudely triumphs over fmall mistakes.
No naufeous praise, no biting taunts offend,
W'expect a cenfor, and we find a friend.
Poets, improv'd by his correcting care,
Shall face their foes with more undaunted air,
Stripp'd of their rags, shall like Ulysses shine,
With more heroic
port, and grace divine.
pomp of learning, and no fund of fenfe,
Can e'er atone for loft benevolence.
May Wykeham's fons, who in each art excel,
And rival antient bards in writing well,
While from their bright examples taught they fing,
And emulate their flights with bolder wing,
From their own frailties learn the humbler part,
Mildly to judge in gentleness of heart!
Such critics, Ramfay, jealous for our fame,
Will not with malice infolently blame,
But lur'd by praise the haggard Mufe reclaim.
Retouch each line till all is juft and neat,
A whole of proper parts, a work almost compleat.
So when fome beauteous dame, a reigning toast,
The flower of Forth, and proud Edina's boast,
Stands at her toilet in her tartan plaid,
In all her richeft head-geer trimly clad,
The curious hand-maid, with observant eye,
Corrects the fwelling hoop that hangs awry ;
Through every plait her bufy fingers rove,
And now the plies below, and then above,
With pleafing tattle entertains the fair,
Each ribbon fmooths, adjusts each rambling hair,
Till the gay nymph in her full luftre fhine,
And Homer's Juno was not half fo fine.
To the AUTHOR of the ESSAY ON MAN..
WAS ever work to fuch perfection wrought;
How elegant the diction! pure the thought!
Not fparingly adorn'd' with fcatter'd rays,
But one bright beauty, one collected blaze:
So breaks the day upon the fhades of night,
Enlivening all with one unbounded light.
To humble man's proud heart, thy great defign;
But who can read this wondrous work divine,
So juftly plann'd, and fo politely writ,
And not be proud, and boast of human wit?
Yet juft to thee, and to thy precepts true,
Let us know man, and give to God his due;
His image we, but mix'd with coarse allay,
Our happiness to love, adore, obey;
To praife him for each gracious boon beftow'd,
For this thy work, for every leffer good,
With proftrate hearts before his throne to fall,
And own the great Creator all in all.
The Mufe, which should instruct, now entertains, On trifling subjects, in enervate strains ;
Be it thy task to set the wanderer right,
Point out her way in her aërial flight;
Her noble mien, her honours loft restore,
And bid her deeply think, and proudly foar.
Thy theme fublime, and eafy verse, will prove
Her high defcent, and miffion from above.
Let others now tranflate; thy abler pen
Shall vindicate the ways of God to men;
In Virtue's caufe fhall gloriously prevail,
When the bench frowns in vain, and pulpits fail.
Made wife by thee, whofe happy ftyle conveys
The pureft morals in the softest lays,
As angels once, fo now we mortals bold
Shall climb the ladder Jacob view'd of old;
Thy kind reforming Muse fhall lead the way
To the bright regions of eternal day.
EPISTLE to Mr. THOMSON,
On the first Edition of his SEASONS.
O bright, fo dark, upon an April day,
The fun darts forth, or hides his various ray;
So high, fo low, the lark afpiring fings,
Or drops to earth again with folded wings;
So fmooth, fo rough, the fea that laves our shores,
Smiles in a calm, or in a tempeft roars.
Believe me, Thomson, 'tis not thus I write,
Severely kind, by envy four'd or spite :
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