When scribblers, to the charge by interest led, The fierce North Briton[107] foaming at their head, Pour forth invectives, deaf to Candour's call, And, injured by one alien, rail at all; On northern Pisgah when they take their stand, To mark the weakness of that Holy Land, 190 With needless truths their libels to adorn, And hang a nation up to public scorn, Thy generous soul condemns the frantic rage, And hates the faithful, but ill-natured page. The Scots are poor, cries surly English pride; True is the charge, nor by themselves denied. Are they not, then, in strictest reason clear, Who wisely come to mend their fortunes here? If, by low supple arts successful grown, They sapp'd our vigour to increase their own; 200 If, mean in want, and insolent in power, They only fawn'd more surely to devour, Roused by such wrongs, should Reason take alarm, And e'en the Muse for public safety arm? But if they own ingenuous virtue's sway, And follow where true honour points the way, If they revere the hand by which they're fed, And bless the donors for their daily bread, Or, by vast debts of higher import bound, Are always humble, always grateful found: 210 If they, directed by Paul's holy pen, Become discreetly all things to all men, That all men may become all things to them, Envy may hate, but Justice can't condemn. Into our places, states, and beds they creep; They've sense to get, what we want sense to keep. Once--be the hour accursed, accursed the place!-- I ventured to blaspheme the chosen race. Into those traps, which men call'd patriots laid, By specious arts unwarily betray'd, 220 Madly I leagued against that sacred earth, Vile parricide! which gave a parent birth: But shall I meanly error's path pursue, When heavenly truth presents her friendly clue? Once plunged in ill, shall I go farther in? To make the oath, was rash: to keep it, sin. Backward I tread the paths I trod before, And calm reflection hates what passion swore. Converted, (blessed are the souls which know Those pleasures which from true conversion flow, 230 Whether to reason, who now rules my breast, Or to pure faith, like Lyttelton and West),[108] Past crimes to expiate, be my present aim To raise new trophies to the Scottish name; To make (what can the proudest Muse do more?) E'en faction's sons her brighter worth adore; To make her glories, stamp'd with honest rhymes, In fullest tide roll down to latest times. Presumptuous wretch! and shall a Muse like thine, An English Muse, the meanest of the Nine, 240 Attempt a theme like this? Can her weak strain Expect indulgence from the mighty Thane? Should he from toils of government retire, And for a moment fan the poet's fire; Should he, of sciences the moral friend, Each curious, each important search suspend, Leave unassisted Hill[109] of herbs to tell, And all the wonders of a cockleshell;