Nor thro' the microscope can take delight
T'observe the tusks and bristles of a mite;
Nor by the lengthen'd tube learn to descry
Those shining worlds which roll around the sky.
Bid such read hist'ry to improve their skill,
Polite excuse! their memories are ill:
Moll's maps may in their dining-rooms make show,
But their contents they're not oblig'd to know;
And gen'rous friendship's out of sight too fine,
They think it only means a glass of wine.
But he whose cheerful mind hath higher flown,
And adds learn'd thoughts of others to his own:
Has seen the world, and read the volume man,
And can the springs and ends of action scan;
Has fronted death in service of his king,
And drunken deep of the Castalian spring;
This man can live, and happiest life's his due;
Can be a friend-a virtue known to few;
Yet all such virtues strongly shine in you.
TO A FRIEND AT FLORENCE. (1)
YOUR steady impulse foreign climes to view,
To study nature, and what art can shew,
I now approve, while my warm fancy walks
O'er Italy, and with your genius talks;
(1) Mr. Smibert, a painter. Mr. Walpole, in his " Anecdotes of Painting," characterises him as an ingenious artist, and a modest worthy man. He died at Boston, in New England, in 1751. Allan Ramsay, the painter, was a scholar of Smibert's.
We trace, with glowing breast and piercing look,
The curious gall'ry of th' illustrious duke,
Where all those masters of the arts divine,
With pencils, pens, and chisels greatly shine,
Immortalizing the Augustan age,
On medals, canvass, stone, or written page.
Profiles and busts originals express,
And antique scrolls, old ere we knew the press.
For's love to science, and each virtuous Scot,
May days unnumber'd be great Cosmus' lot!
The sweet Hesperian fields you'll next explore,
'Twixt Arno's banks and Tiber's fertile shore.
Now, now I wish my organs could keep pace,
With my fond muse and you these plains to trace;
We'd enter Rome with an uncommon taste,
And feed our minds on every famous waste;
Amphitheatres, columns, royal tombs,
Triumphal arches, ruins of vast domes,
Old aerial aqueducts, and strong-pav'd roads,
Which seem to've been not wrought by men but gods.
These view'd, we'd then survey with utmost care
What modern Rome produces fine or rare;
Where buildings rise with all the strength of art,
Proclaiming their great architects desert.
Which citron shades surround and jessamin,
And all the soul of Raphael shines within.
Then we'd regale our ears with sounding notes
Which warble tuneful thro' the beardless throats,
Join'd with the vibrating harmonious strings,
And breathing tubes, while the soft eunuch sings.
Of all those dainties take a hearty meal;
But let your resolution still prevail:
Return, before your pleasure grow a toil,
To longing friends, and your own native soil:
Preserve your health, your virtue still improve, Hence you'll invite protection from above.
OB! cou'd these fields of thine
Bear, as in Gaul, the juicy vine,
How sweet the bonny grape wou'd shine
On wau's where now,
Your apricots and peaches fine
Their branches bow.
Since human life is but a blink,
Why should we then its short joys sink?
He disna live that canna link
When warm'd with wine, like men we think,
And grow mair stout.
The cauldrife carlies clog'd wi' care,
Wha gathering gear gang hyt and gare,
If ram'd wi' red, they rant and rair,
Like mirthfu' men,
It soothly shaws them they can spare
A rowth to spend.
What soger, when with wine he's bung,
Did e'er complain he had been dung,
Or of his toil, or empty spung?
Nought but braw deeds employ his tongue,
Or some sweet lass.
Yet trouth 'tis proper we should stint
Oursells to a fresh mod'rate pint,
Why shou'd we the blyth blessing mint
To waste or spill,
Since aften when our reason's tint,
We may do ill.
Let's set these hair-brain'd fowk in view,
That when they're stupid, mad, and fow,
Do brutal deeds,which aft they rue
For a' their days,
Which frequently prove very few
To such as these.
Then let us grip our bliss mair sicker,
And tap our heal and sprightly liquor,
Which sober tane, makes wit the quicker,
And sense mair keen,
While graver heads that's muckle thicker
Grane wi' the spleen.
May ne'er sic wicked fumes arise
In me, shall break a' sacred ties,
And gar me like a fool despise,
With stiffness rude,
Whatever my best friends advise,
Tho' ne'er so gude.
"Tis best then to evite the sin
Of bending till our sauls gae blin,
Lest, like our glass, our breasts grow thin, And let fowk peep
At ilka secret hid within,
That we should keep.
ON THE SUCCESSFUL REPRESENTATION OF A TRAGEDY.(')
Bur jealousy, dear Jos., which aft gives pain
To scrimpit sauls, I own myself right vain
To see a native trusty friend of mine
Sae brawly 'mang our bleezing billies shine.
Yes, wherefore no, shaw them the frozen north
Can tow'ring minds with heav'nly heat bring forth :
Minds that can mount with an uncommon wing,
And frae black heath'ry-headed mountains sing,
As saft as he that haughs Hesperian treads,
Or leans beneath the aromatic shades;
Bred to the love of lit'rature and arms,
Still something great a Scottish bosom warms;
Tho' nurs'd on ice, and educate in snaw,
Honour and liberty eggs him up to draw
A hero's sword, or an heroic quill,
The monstrous faes of right and wit to kill.
Well may ye further in your leal design
To thwart the gowks, and gar the brethren tine
The wrang opinion which they lang have had,
That a' which mounts the stage is surely bad.
(1) The piece here alluded to was "Fatal Extravagance," a Tragedy, 1721; which Mitchell himself afterwards avowed to have been written by Aaron Hill, Esq. who, with a generosity peculiar to himself, allowed this author, who was himself a tolerable poet, both the reputation and the profits of this piece, to extricate him from some pecuniary embarrassments brought on by his own extravagance: thus in the very title of the piece conveying a gentle reproof, while he generously relieved him. Mitchell was the author of two volumes of miscellaneous poems; "Fatal Extravagance," a tragedy, 8vo, 1721; the "Fatal Extravagance," enlarged, 12mo, 1725; "The Highland Fair," a ballad opera, 8vo, 1731. Mitchell died in 1738.
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