An Answer To A Poetical Apology Poem by Anne MacVicar Grant

WHEN FINGAL dwelt in windy halls,
As mournful OSSIAN tells,
Midst lofty Selma's shaded walls
He spread the feast of shells.
Each tuneful bard and warlike chief
Made haste the feast to share;
Where music, sorrow's best relief,
Oft charm'd the vocal air.
The soft harp's many-sounding strings,
Wak'd by the blushing maid,
Could melt the iron hearts of kings,
And beauty's influence aid.
Excluded from the hero's feast,
By some unhappy chance,
Dark anguish prey'd on ALDO'S breast,
And rust consum'd his lance.
Nor war nor hunting more could please,
Nor beauty's powerful charms,
He fled o'er Lochlin's stormy seas,
To shine in foreign arms.
Bless'd days! when Nature rul'd supreme
Uncheck'd by frozen Art,
And love and fancy's blended beam
Illum'd the artless heart.;
When hungry heroes sprung with joy
To snuff the ven'son's fume,
Nor nymphs could artifice employ
To heighten Nature's bloom.
Their heavy locks, that wont to fly
Unpowder'd in the wind;
Their blushing cheek and downcast eye,
That spoke th' ingenuous mind;
With more coercive force could sway,
And tame the manly breast,
Than belles in all the full display
Of modern fashion dress'd,
Alas! a mournful proof appears
Of this soul-harrowing truth;
For this sad Nature melts in tears,
And clouds o'erhang the south.
MACALPINE , NEPTUNE'S faithful priest,
Well known to beaux and belles,
Thrice bow'd adoring to the east,
Then spread the feast of shells:
There sportive maids, and festive swains,
Attend the hallow'd rite,
And weave to music's sprightly strains
The dance in mazes light.
Ye Echoes hold your tattling tongues,
Nor spread our sad disgrace;
Else busy Fame, with brazen lungs,
Will blaze it through the place.
The bard of Celtic race renown'd
Avoids great NEPTUNE'S feast,
Lest he in torrents should be drown'd,
Or blighted by the east.
Rude blasts from EOL'S airy hall
Pierc'd through each tender form,
While, snug behind his cloister'd wall,
He laugh'd to see the storm.
Secure, his adamantine heart
In learning's musty cell
Repell'd poor CUPID'S powerful dart,
And slighted every belle.
Had he like ALDO no repast
But what his bow supplied,
He'd dare well pleas'd the wintry blast
When shells were smoking wide.
But college sophs of modern times,
In Sloth's soft lap reclin'd,
Will praise the fair in well-turn'd rhymes,
Yet leave them to the wind.
He talks of gaining hearts of beaux,
To please the angry fair;
But whether they have hearts to lose,
He does not know nor care.
Ah! sly observer, deeply read
In Nature's ample page;
Too well you know that beaux well-bred
In this self-loving age,
In panoply of lead and brass
Their cautious hearts unfold,
Which beauty cannot pierce, alas!
Unless with darts of gold!
The jealous God from glittering scenes
On purple pinions flies,
To dwell where Truth and Nature reigns,
And victims pure supplies.
To rights of men a foe confess'd,
No limits bar his throne,
A despot o'er the generous breast,
He loves to rule alone.
Though beaux should yawn, or oysters gape,
Or drenching rains descend,
Methinks the fair might still escape
The scorning of a friend.
He whom the Muses all regard,
Against our power rebels,
The long-descended Celtic bard
Avoids the feast of shells!