Classic Poem

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 cheerful glow.

I conn'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 virtue, being its own reward,
Expresses by “The Sister Springs.”

Emotions tender crowd the mind
When with the royal bard you go,
To sigh in notes divinely kind
“The mighty fall'n on Mount Gilboa.”

Much surely was the virgin's joy
Who with the Iliad had your lays,
For ere and since the siege of Troy
We all delight in love and praise.

These heav'n-born passions, such desire,
I never yet could think a crime,
But first-rate virtues, 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 “The 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,
Fontaine and Prior, who have sung
Blithe tales the best, had they heard thine
On Lob, they'd own'd themselves outdone.

The plot's pursued 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 Ombre game,
And “King revenging Captive Queen;”
He merits, but had one 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 the' harmomous fair
Sing, like a dweller of the sky,
My verses with a Scotian air;
Then saints were not so bless'd as I.

In her the valued 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.

Which 'nour he left to's eldest son;
That first-born chief you represent:
His second came to Caledon,
From whom our Somer'ile 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 bless'd with all you would desire.

O, Sir! oblige the world, and spread
In print those and your other lays;
This shall be better'd while they're read,
And after-ages sound your praise.

I could enlarge—but if I should
On what you've wrote, my Ode would run
Too great a length—Your thoughts so crowd,
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 should (when worth invites) refuse
To sing the person she admires.