“All this is very true," cries one of better sense than good nature; "but what occasion have you to tell us the sun shines, when we have the use of our eyes, and feel his influence?" Very true, but I have the liberty to use the poet's privilege, which is, “ To speak what every body thinks." Indeed, there might be some strength in the reflection, if the Idalian registers were of as short duration as life; but the bard, who fondly hopes immortality, has a certain praise-worthy pleasure in communicating to posterity the fame of distinguished characters. I write this last sentence with a hand that trembles between

hope and fear. But if I shall prove so happy as to please your Ladyship, in the following attempt, then all my doubts shall vanish like a morning vapour; I shall hope to be classed with Tasso and Guarini, and sing with Ovid,

"If 'tis allowed to poets to divine,
"One half of round Eternity is mine."

EDINBURGH,
June, 1725.

MADAM,

Your Ladyship's most obedient, and

most devoted servant,

ALLAN RAMSAY.

TO THE

COUNTESS OF EGLINTOUN,

WITH THE FOLLOWING

PASTORAL.

ACCEPT, O Eglintoun! the rural lays,
That, bound to thee, thy poet humbly pays.
The Muse, that oft has raised her tuneful strains,
A frequent guest on Scotia's blissful plains;
That oft has sung, her listening youth to move,
The charms of beauty, and the force of love;
Once more resumes the still successful lay,
Delighted through the verdant meads to stray.
O! come, invoked! and pleased, with her repair
To breathe the balmy sweets of purer air;
In the cool evening, negligently laid,
Or near the stream, or in the rural shade,
Propitious hear, and, as thou hear'st, approve
The Gentle Shepherd's tender tale of love.

Instructed from these scenes, what glowing fires Inflame the breast that real love inspires! The fair shall read of ardours, sighs, and tears, All that a lover hopes, and all he fears:

Hence, too, what passions in his bosom rise!
What dawning gladness sparkles in his eyes!
When first the fair one, piteous of his fate,
Cured of her scorn, and vanquished of her hate,
With wilding mind, is bounteous to reient,
And blushing, beauteous, smiles the kind consent!
Love's passion here, in each extreme, is shown,
In Charlotte's smile, or in Maria's frown.

With words like these, that failed not to engage, Love courted Beauty in a golden age; Pure, and untaught, such Nature first inspired, Ere yet the fair affected phrase desired. His secret thoughts were undisguised with art, His words ne'er knew to differ from his heart: He speaks his love so artless and sincere, As thy Eliza might be pleased to hear.

Heaven only to the rural state bestows Conquest o'er life, and freedom from its woes : Secure alike from envy and from care, Nor raised by hope, nor yet depressed by fear: Nor Want's lean hand its happiness constrains, Nor riches torture with ill-gotten gains. No secret guilt its stedfast peace destroys, No wild ambition interrupts its joys.

Blest still to spend the hours that Heaven has lent,

Serenely gentle, as the thoughts that roll,
Sintess and pure, in fair Humeia's soul.

But now the rural state these joys has lost; Even swains no more that innocence can boast : Love speaks no more what beauty may believe, Prone to betray, and practised to deceive.

Now happiness forsakes her blest retreat,

The peaceful dwelling where she fixed her seat;
The pleasing fields she wont of old to grace,
Companion to an upright sober race.

When on the sunny hill, or verdant plain,
Free and familiar with the sons of men,

To crown the pleasures of the blameless feast,
She uninvited came, a welcome guest;
Ere yet an age, grown rich in impious arts,
Bribed from their innocence uncautious hearts:
Then grudging hate, and sinful pride succeed,
Cruel revenge, and false unrighteous deed;
Then dowerless beauty lost the power to move;
The rust of lucre stained the gold of love:
Bounteous no more, and hospitably good,
The genial hearth first blushed with strangers' blood:
The friend no more upon the friend relies,
And semblant falschood puts on truth's disguise:
The peaceful household filled with dire alarms ;
The ravished virgin mourns her slighted charms:

The voice of impious mirth is heard around,
In guilt they feast, in guilt the bowl is crowned :
Unpunished violence lords it o'er the plains,
And happiness forsakes the guilty swains.

Oh! Happiness, from human search retired, Where art thou to be found, by all desired? Nun! sober and devout, why art thou fled, To hide in shades thy meek contented head? Virgin! of aspect mild, ah! why, unkind, Fly'st thou, displeased, the commerce of mankind? O! teach our steps to find the secret cell, Where, with thy sire Content, thou lov'st to dwell. Or, say, dost thou a duteous handmaid wait Familiar at the chambers of the great? Dost thou pursue the voice of them that call To noisy revel, and to midnight ball?

O'er the full banquet, when we feast our soul, Dost thou inspire the mirth, or mix the bowl? Or, with the industrious planter dost thou talk, Conversing freely in an evening walk?

Say, does the miser e'er thy face behold,

Watchful and studious of the treasured gold? Seeks Knowledge, not in vain, thy much-loved

power,

Still musing silent at the morning hour?
May we thy presence hope in war's alarms,