O fov'reign mistress of the tuneful lyre!
Who fir'ft the poet's breaft with warmth divine;
Who, if thou wilt, canft graciously inspire

A foul as rude, and as unfkill'd as mine; 'Tis thine our Caledonian bard to bless

With all the glories of a spotless fame; From thee, O goddefs! comes his happiness, The power to please, and an immortal name,

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CXXXXXXX!

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VERSES written by a very near-fighted Gentleman, and infcribed to a Lady, whofe Sight has been much impaired by Sickness.

Occafioned by reading the POEMS of Mr. Blacklock, who has wholly loft his Sight.

Ο

! Thou in whom th’All-forming Power has join'd

A feeble body, with a vig'rous mind;

Whofe weaken'd fight, wounded by light's fierce ray, Flies from the influence of unpractis'd day;

And inwardly retiring to the breast,

Beams forth in strong distinguish'd fenfe confefs'd;

With me this wondrous poet's fong peruse:
O! liften to the dictates of his muse,

Whose fad fimilitude of grief fhall cheer
Thy drooping foul, and teach thee how to bear
Each threat'ning evil of thy hapless state,

And soften all the rigour of thy fate.

Behold the youth, in earliest age depriv'd

Of life's best gift, almost e'er yet

he liv'd,

To whom coy nature her fair face difplay'd,
Only to wrap it in eternal fhade:

Extinct to him creation's works appear,
Each pleasing product of the circling year,
Each beauteous fcene with vary'd colours gay,
And the great fun himself, parent of day.

Yet has indulgent heav'n, feverely kind,
Pour'd forth its richest treafures on his mind
And even lavish in munificence,

;

Has ftor'd with images each other sense;
Making for lofs of fight an ample recompence.

Early the mufe had mark'd him for her own,
And shed each grace on this her fav'rite fon;

}

With true poetic rage his bofom fir'd,

Not warm'd, but wrap'd, not taught him, but infpir'd; Hence in fweet numbers lifp'd his infant tongue, And ev ́n his childhood form'd th' impaffion'd fong.

But chilling penury's rude grafp confin'd
The rifing growth of his untutor'd mind
Check'd his aspiring wing, nor let it foar
To heights which learning only could explore,
At length the gen'rous hand of charity

Loos'd his imprison'd foul, and bade it free
Through all the spacious fields of science stray,
And to fair learning pointed out its way.

With eager hafte his bufy mind explor'd
All that in ancient volumes had been ftor'

Revolv'd each Grecian and each Roman page
With curious fearch; inquir'd from every fage,
Whate'er of GOD, or nature, had been taught;
What priests had utter'd, and what poets wrote.
But chief the muses virgin train he lov'd;
With them through fair Edina's groves he rov'd,

T

Smit with the praife of fong; to them he bore
Each happier thought, and ev'ry fairer flower
Of knowlege fprung fpontaneous from his mind. {
By nature prompted, or by art refin'd.
Thus form'd by learning, and matur'd with years,
His ripen'd genius in full bloom appears.

Whether the mufe Horatian notes inspire,
To grateful notes he tunes th' Horatian lyre.
Pleas'd the first tributary lay to bring

To him whose bounty gave him firft to fing.
Or if fublimer themes demand his fong
(Such as of old dwell'd on the hallow'd tongue
Of Ifrael's pfalmift), with no vulgar hand
He strikes the facred harp; at his command,
In language not their own, the truths divine
Appear, and with unfaded luftre fhine.

But not in borrow'd majesty alone

The bard is feen; with

graces,

all his own,

Adorn'd, fair fancy's richeft ftores he drains,

And charms us with the mufic of his ftrains.

Hark

Hark what melodious founds invite the ear,

Whilft to fair happiness he bids

prepare

The pious fong, whilst nobly wild and rude
He hymns the praise of gen'rous fortitude.
Ev'n dry philosophy from him receives
A pleafing form; and nature gladlier lives
In his descriptive verfe; where (strange to tell)
Those objects which our eyes alone reveal,
Eyeless he paints, the glorious blaze of day,
The gloom of ev'ning, and the moon's pale ray,
The twinkling stars, that in bright order lie
'Midft the clear azure of the distant sky.
Nor less the fruitful earth's productions grace
His wond'rous fong: The variegated race
Of flow'rs, that on its painted bosom

grow,

With colours radiant as the heav'nly bow;
On each a just description he bestows,

From the faint vi'let to the blushing rose.

But O! how sweetly moving are his strains, Whilst of loft fight his mournful mufe complains;

And