To MR. DRYDEN,

ON HIS

EXCELLENT TRANSLATION OF VIRGIL

W

́HENE'ER great Virgil's lofty verse I see,

The pompous fcene charms my admiring eye :
There different beauties in perfection meet;
The thoughts as proper, as the numbers fweet:
And when wild Fancy mounts a daring height,
Judgment fteps in, and moderates her flight.
Wifely he manages his wealthy ftore,
Still fays enough, and yet implies still more :
For though the weighty fenfe be closely wrought,
The reader's left t'improve the pleasing thought.

Hence we despair to see an English dress
Should e'er his nervous energy exprefs;
For who could that in fetter'd rhyme inclose,
Which without lofs can fcarce be told in profe!

But you, great Sir, his manly genius raise;
And make your copy share an equal praise.
Oh how I fee thee in foft fcenes of love,
Renew thofe paffions he alone could move!
Here Cupid's charms are with new art exprest,
And pale Eliza leaves her peaceful rest:

Leaves her Elyfium, as if glad to live,

To love, and wifh, to figh, despair, and grieve,
And die again for him that would again deceive.
Nor does the mighty Trojan less appear

Than Mars himself amidst the storms of war.
Now his fierce eyes with double fury glow,
And a new dread attends th' impending blow :
The Daunian chiefs their eager rage abate,
And, though unwounded, feem to feel their fate.
Long the rude fury of an ignorant age,

With barbarous fpite, prophan'd his facred page..
The heavy Dutchmen, with laborious toil,
Wrefted his fenfe, and cramp'd his vigorous style;
No time, no pains, the drudging pedants fpare;
But ftill his fhoulders muft the burden bear.
While through the mazes of their comments led,
We learn not what he writes, but what they read.
Yet, through these shades of undiftinguish'd night.
Appear'd fome glimmering intervals of light;
Till mangled by a vile tranflating fect,
Like babes by witches in effigy rackt;

Till Ogleby, mature in dulnefs, rose,
And Holborn doggrel, and low chiming profe,
His ftrength and beauty did at once depose.
But now the magic fpell is at an end,
Since ev'n the dead in you hath found a friend
You free the Bard from rude oppreffors' power,
And grace his verse with charms unknown before
He, doubly thus oblig'd, muft doubting stand,
Which chiefly should his gratitude command;

;

}

Whether

Whether should claim the tribute of his heart,
The Patron's bounty, or the Poet's art.

Alike with wonder and delight we view'd
The Roman genius in thy verse renew'd:
We faw 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 fcarce perform, or we durft ask :
A talk! which Waller's Mufe could ne'er engage;
A tafk! too hard for Denham's ftronger rage:
Sure of fuccefs they some 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 Pæans 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 see,
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.
Then fhall his verse in grateful pomp appear,
Nor will his birth renew the ancient jar;
On thofe Greek cities we fhall look with fcorn,
And in our Britain think the Poet born.

To MR. DRYDEN,

ON HIS

TRANSLATION OF VIRGIL.

WE

I.

E read, how dreams and vifions heretofore
The Prophet and the Poet could inspire;
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 vouchfafe 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 prefumptuous quill.

IV.

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

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

V.

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

VI.

You, like his Hero, though yourself were free; And difentangled from the war of wit;

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

VII.

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

VIII.

Ev'n first and last, we owe him half to you, For that his Eneids mifs'd their threatned fate, Was---that his friends by fome prediction knew, Hereafter, who correcting should translate.