No. XVII.

FROM DR. MOORE.

Clifford-street, January 23d, 1787.

SIR,

I HAVE just received your letter, by which I find I have reason to complain of my friend Mrs. Dunlop, for transmitting to you extracts from my letters to her, by much too freely and too carelessly written for your perusal. I must forgive her, however, in consideration of her good intention, as you will forgive me, I hope, for the freedom I use with certain expressions, in consideration of my admiration of the poems in general. If I may judge of the author's disposition from his works, with all the other good qualities of a poet,

he

he has not the irritable temper ascribed to that race of men by one of their own number, whom you have the happiness to resemble in ease and curious felicity of expression. Indeed the poetical beauties however original and brilliant, and lavishly scattered, are not all I admire in your works: the love of your native country, that feeling sensibility to all the objects of humanity, and the independent spirit which breathes through the whole, give me a most favourable impression of the poet, and have made me often regret that I did not see the poems, the certain effect of which would have been my seeing the author, last summer, when I was longer in Scotland than I have been for many years.

I rejoice very sincerely at the encouragement you receive at Edinburgh, and I think you peculiarly fortunate in the patronage of Dr. Blair, who I am informed interests himself very much for you. I beg to be remembered to him; nobody can have a warmer regard for that gentleman than I have, which independent of the worth of his character, would be kept alive by the memory of our common friend the late Mr. George B-c. e.

Before I received your letter, I sent inclosed in a letter to a sonnet by Miss Williams, a young poetical lady which she wrote on reading

your

your Mountain-daisy; perhaps it may not displease you.

*

I have been trying to add to the number of your subscribers, but find many of my acquaintance are already among them. I have only to add, that with every sentiment of esteem, and the most cordial good wishes,

I am,

Your obedient humble servant,

J. MOORE.

No.

*The sonnet is as follows:

WHILE SOON "the garden's flaunting flowers" decay,
And scatter'd on the earth neglected lie,

The "Mountain-daisy" cherish'd by the ray
A poet drew from heaven, shall never die.
Ah, like that lonely flower the poet rose!

'Mid penury's bare soil and bitter gale;

He felt each storm that on the mountain blows,
Nor ever knew the shelter of the vale,

By genius in her native vigor nurst,

On nature with impassion'd look he gazed; Then through the cloud of adverse fortune burst, Indignant, and in light unborrow'd blazed. Scotia from rude affliction shield thy bard, His heaven-taught numbers fame herself will guard.

E.

No. XVIII.

To DR. MOORE.

Edinburgh, 15th February, 1787.

REVERED SIR,

PARDON my seeming neglect in delaying so long to acknowledge the honour you have done me, in your kind notice of me, January 23d. Not many months ago I knew no other employment than following the plough, nor could boast any thing higher than a distant acquaintance with a country clergyman. Mere greatness never embarrasses me; I have nothing to ask from the great, and I do not fear their judgment: but genius, polished by learning, and at its proper point of elevation in the eye of the world, this of late I

frequently

frequently meet with, and tremble at its approach. I scorn the affectation of seeming modesty to cover self-conceit. That I have some merit I do not deny; but I see with frequent wringings of heart, that the novelty of my character, and the honest national prejudice of my countrymen, have borne me to a height altogether untenable to my abilities.

For the honor Miss W. has done me, please, Sir, return her in my name my most grateful thanks. I have more than once thought of paying her in kind, but have hitherto quitted the idea in hopeless despondency. I had never before heard of her; but the other day I got her poems, which for several reasons, some belonging to the head, and others the offspring of the heart, give me a great deal of pleasure. I have little pretensions to critic lore; there are I think two characteristic features in her poetry-the unfettered wild flight of native genius, and the querulous, sombre tenderness of time settled sorrow."

I only know what pleases me, often without being able to tell why.

No.