Emotions tender crowd the mind,
When with the royal bard you go,
To figh in notes divinely kind,

"The Mighty fall'n on mount Gilbo.”

Much furely was the virgin's joy,
Who with the Iliad had your lays;
For, ere and fince the fiege of Troy,
We all delight in love and praise.

These heaven-born paffions, fuch defire,
I never yet cou'd think a crime;
But first-rate virtues, which inspire
The foul to reach at the fublime.

But often men mistake the way,
And for fame by empty boast,
pump

Like your

"Gilt Afs," who stood to bray,

Till in a flame his tail he lost.

Him th' incurious bencher hits,

With his own tale, fo tight and clean,
That while I read, ftreams gush by fits
Of hearty laughter from my een.

Old Chaucer, bard of vaft ingine;
Fontaine and Prior, who have fung

Blyth tales the best; had they heard thine

On Lob, they 'd own themselves out-done.

The

The plot 's purfu'd with so much glee,
The too officious dog and priest,
The fquire opprefs'd, I own for me
I never heard a better jeft.

Pope well defcrib'd an ombre 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, juft, and with fuch eafe,
That while I read, upon my foul,
I wonder how I chance to please.

Yet I have pleas'd, and please the best;
And fure to me laurels belong,
Since British fair, and 'mong the best,
Somervile's confort likes my fong.

Ravish'd I heard th' harmonious fair
Sing, like a dweller of the sky,
My verses with a Scotian air;

Then faints were not fo bleft as I.

In her the valu'd charms unite,

She really is what all wou'd feem, Gracefully handfome, wife, and fweet; 'Tis merit to have her esteem.

Your noble kinfman, her lov'd mate,
Whose worth claims all the world's refpect,
Met in her love a fmiling 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 lafting fame:

Whichnour, he left to 's eldest son,
That first-born chief you reprefent;
His fecond 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 bleft with all you wou'd defire.

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

I cou'd

* Since the writing of this ode, Mr. Somerville's poems are printed by Mr. Lintot in an 8vo. volume.-Somerville died, in 1742. This fuperior to Pope is allowed by Johnson "to write "well, for a gentleman."

I cou'd enlarge;-but if I fhou'd

On what you 've wrote, my ode wou'd run Too great a length; your thoughts fo crowd, To note them all I 'd ne'er have done.

Accept this offering of a mufe,

Who on her Pictland hills ne'er tires; Nor fhou'd, when worth invites, refuse To fing the person she admires.

AN EPISTLE FROM MR SOMERVILLE.

NEAR fair Avona's filver tide,
Whose waves in foft meanders glide,
I read to the delighted fwains
Your jocund fongs 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 furvey, with ravish'd eyes,
This friendly gift *, my valu'd prize,
Where fifter arts, with charms divine,
In their full bloom and beauty fhine,
Alternately my foul is bleft:
Now I behold my welcome guest,
That graceful, that engaging air,
So dear to all the brave and fair:
Nor has th' ingenious artift fhown
His outward lineaments alone,

But

* Lord Somerville was pleafed to fend me his own picture, and Mr. Ramfay's Works. In 1730, Somerville concluded a bargain with James Lord Somerville, for the reverfion of his eftate at his death. His connection with Lord Somerville, probably occafioned his poetical correfpondence with Ramfay, who was patronized by that nobleman.