Alike with wonder and delight we view'd The Roman genius in thy verse renew'd: We saw thee raise foft Ovid's amorous fire, And fit the tuneful Horace to thy lyre: We faw new gall imbitter Juvenal's pen, And crabbed Perfeus made politely plain: Virgil alone was thought too great a task; What you could scarce perform, or we durft ask: A talk! which Waller's Muse could ne'er engage; A tafk! too hard for Denham's stronger rage: Sure of fuccefs they fome flight fallies try'd, But the fenc'd coaft their bold attempts defy'd. With fear their o'er-match'd forces back they drew, Quitted the province Fate referv'd for you. In vain thus Philip did the Perfians storm; A work his fon was deftin'd to perform.

"O had Rofcommon liv'd to hail the day, "And fing loud Paans through the crowded way; "When you in Roman majesty appear,

"Which none know better, and none come fo near:"
The happy author would with wonder fee,
His rules were only prophecies of thee:
And were he now to give tranflators light,
He'd bid them only read thy work, and write.
For this great task our loud applause is due;
We own old favours, but muft prefs for new:
Th' expecting world demands one labour more;
And thy lov'd Homer does thy aid implore,
To right his injur'd works, and fet them free
From the lewd rhymes of groveling Ogleby.
B 3

Then

Then shall his verfe in grateful pomp appear,
Nor will his birth renew the ancient jar;

On thofe Greek cities we shall look with fcorn,
And in our Britain think the Poet born.

ΤΟ M R.

DRYDEN,

ON HIS

TRANSLATION OF VIRGIL,

I.

WE read, how dreams and vifions heretofore

The Prophet and the Poet could infpire;

And make them in unusual rapture foar, With rage divine, and with poetic fire.

II.

O could I find it now;-Would Virgil's fhade
But for a while vouchsafe to bear the light;
To grace my numbers, and that Mufe to aid,
Who fings the Poet that has done him right.

III.

It long has been this facred Author's fate, To lie at every dull Tranflator's will;

Long, long his Mufe has groan'd beneath the weight Of mangling Ogleby's presumptuous quill.

IV.

Dryden, at laft, in his defence arofe; The father now is righted by the fon:

And while his Mufe endeavours to disclose That Poet's beauties, fhe declares her own.

V.

In your fmooth, pompous numbers dreft, each line, Each thought, betrays fuch a majestic touch; He could not, had he finish'd his defign, Have wish'd it better, or have done so much.

VI.

You, like his Hero, though yourself were freez

And difentangled from the war of wit;

You, who fecure might other dangers fee, And fafe from all malicious cenfures fit.

VII.

Yet because facred Virgil's noble Muse,
O'erlay'd by fools, was ready to expire:
To risk your fame again, you boldly chufe
Or to redeem, or perish with your fire.

VIII.

Ev'n firft and laft, we owe him half to you, For that his Æneids mifs'd their threaten'd fate,

Was-that his friends by fome prediction knew, Hereafter, who correcting should tranflate.

IX.

But hold, my Muse, thy needlefs flight restrain,
Unless, like him, thou couldst a verse indite:
To think his fancy to defcribe is vain,
Since nothing can discover light, but light.

X.

'Tis want of genius that does more deny: 'Tis fear my praise should make your glory less. And therefore, like the modeft Painter, I Muft draw the veil, where I cannot express.

HENRY GRAHME.

No

TO MR. DRY DEN.

O undifputed Monarch govern'd yet
With univerfal fway the realms of wit;
Nature could never fuch expence afford;
Each feveral province own'd a several lord.
A Poet then had his poetic wife,
One Muse embrac'd, and married for his life.
By the stale thing his appetite was cloy'd,
His fancy leffen'd, and his fire destroy'd.
But nature grown extravagantly kind,
With all her treasures did adorn your mind.
The different powers were then united found,
And you Wit's univerfal monarch crown'd.

Your

Your mighty fway your great defert fecures,
And every Mufe and every Grace is yours,
To none confin'd, by turns you all enjoy,
Sated with this, you to another fly.

So Sultan-like in your feraglio ftand,

While wishing Muses wait for your command.
Thus no decay, no want of vigour find,
Sublime your fancy, boundless is your mind.
Not all the blasts of time can do you wrong;
Young, fpite of age; in fpite of weakness, ftrong.
Time, like Alcides, ftrikes you to the ground:
You, like Antæus, from each fall rebound.

TIS

To the carv'd image of a beauteous face,
That the cold marble might even feem to be
The life; and the true life, the imagery.

You pafs'd that artift, Sir, and all his powers,
Making the best of Roman Poets ours;
With fuch effect, we know not which to call
The imitation, which th' original,

What