aware that, as his own star waxed higher and yet higher from the horizon line of popularity, that of his elder rival waned more and more. Therefore his noble panegyric on Ramsay is but a tribute to his 'father in song'-- 'Thou paints auld nature to the nines, In thy sweet Caledonian lines; Nae gowden stream through myrtle twines, Where Philomel, While nightly breezes sweep the vines, Her griefs will tell. In gowany glens thy burnie strays, Where bonnie lassies bleach their claes; Or trots by hazelly shaws and braes, Wi' hawthorns gray, Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays At close o' day. Thy rural loves are nature's sel'; Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell; Nae snap conceits, but that sweet spell O' witchin' love, That charm that can the strongest quell, The sternest move.' FOOTNOTES: [3] Pronounced in Scots, _shoo_. CHAPTER XII RAMSAY'S MISCELLANEOUS POEMS; CONCLUSION Our survey is now drawing to a close. To say a word upon those miscellaneous poems that do not fall naturally into any convenient category for classification is all that remains to be done. Already attention has been called to the poem on _Content_, when its purpose was sketched. Though containing many passages of no little power and beauty, yet as a whole it is heavy and uninteresting. Written during the time when the glamour of Pope's influence was upon Ramsay, it exhibits many of Pope's faults without his redeeming features. True, the characters are drawn with great vigour and distinctive individuality, but the trail of dulness lies over it, and _Content_ slumbers, with James Thomson's _chef d'oeuvre_ on _Liberty_, on the top shelf amongst the spiders. The description of the palace of the goddess Content has, however, often been praised for its vigorous scene-painting-- 'Amidst the glade the sacred palace stood, The architecture not so fine as good; Nor scrimp, nor gousty, regular and plain, Plain were the columns which the roof sustain; An easy greatness in the whole was found, Where all that nature wanted did abound: But here no beds are screen'd with rich brocade, Nor fuel logs in silver grates are laid; Nor broken China bowls disturb the joy Of waiting handmaid, or the running boy; Nor in the cupboard heaps of plate are rang'd, To be with each splenetic fashion changed.'