AN ESSAY ON Translated Verse. BY THE EARL of ROSCOMON. Cape Dona Extrema Tuorum. LONDON, Printed for jacob Tonson at the judge's Head in Chancery Lane, 1684. To the Earl of Roscomon, on his Excellent Essay on Translated Verse. WHether the fruitful Nile, or Tyrian Shore, The seeds of Arts and Infant Science bore, 'Tis sure the noble Plant, translated first, Advanced its head in Grecian Gardens nursed. The Grecians added Verse, their tuneful Tongue Made Nature first, and Nature's God their song. Nor stopped Translation here: For conquering Rome With Grecian Spoils brought Grecian Numbers home; Enriched by those Athenian Muses more, Than all the vanquished World could yield before. Till barbarous Nations, and more barbarous Times Debased the majesty of Verse to Rhymes; Those rude at first: a kind of hobbling Prose: That limped along, and tinckled in the close: But Italy, reviving from the trance Of Vandal, Goth, and Monkish ignorance, With pauses, cadence, and well vowelled Words, And all the Graces a good Ear affords, Made Rhyme an Art: and Dante's polished page Restored a silver, not a golden Age: Then Petrarch followed, and in him we see, What Rhyme improved in all its height can be; At best a pleasing Sound, and fair barbarity; The French pursued their steps; and Britain, last In Manly sweetness all the rest surpassed. The Wit of Greece, the Gravity of Rome Appear exalted in the British Loom; The Muse's Empire is restored again, In Charles his Reign, and by Roscomon's Pen. Yet modestly he does his Work survey, And calls a finished Poem an ESSAY; For all the needful Rules are scattered here; Truth smoothly told, and pleasantly severe; (So well is Art disguised, for Nature to appear.) Nor need those Rules, to give Translation light; His own example is a flame so bright; That he, who but arrives to copy well, Unguided will advance; unknowing will excel. Scarce his own Horace could such Rules ordain; Or his own Virgil sing a nobler strain. How much in him may rising Ireland boast, How much in gaining him has Britain lost! Their Island in revenge has ours reclaimed, The more instructed we, the more we still are shamed. 'Tis well for us his generous blood did flow Derived from British Channels long ago; That here his conquering Ancestors was nursed; And Ireland but translated England first: By this Reprisal we regain our right; Else must the two contending Nations fight, A nobler quarrel for his Native earth, Than what divided Greece for Homer's birth. To what perfection will our Tongue arrive, How will Invention and Translation thrive▪ When Authors nobly born will bear their part, And not disdain th'inglorious praise of Art! Great Generals thus descending from command, With their own toil provoke the Soldier's hand. How will sweet Ovid's Ghost be pleased to hear His Fame augmented by a British Peer, The Ea●●● of Mul●● grave. How he embellishes His Helen's loves, Out does his softness, and his sense improves? When these translate, and teach Translators too, Nor Firstling Kid, nor any vulgar vow Should at Apollo's grateful Altar stand; Roscomon writes, to that auspicious hand, Muse feed the Bull that spurns the yellow sand. Roscomon, whom both Court and Camps commend, True to his Prince, and faithful to his friend; Roscomon first in Fields of Honour known, First in the peaceful Triumphs of the Gown; He both Minerva's justly makes his own. Now let the few beloved by jove, and they, Whom infused Titan formed of better Clay, On equal terms with ancient Wit engage, Nor mighty Homer fear, nor sacred Virgil's page: Our English Palace opens wide in state; And without stooping they may pass the Gate. JOHN DRYDEN. Ad illustrissimum Virum; Dominum Comitem de ROSCOMON; In Tentamen suum sive Specimen de Poetis transferendis. Carmen Encomiasticon. ANglia si claris pollet faecunda Poetis Mundo praereptos jactans in pace triumphos; Pallada nutrivit si non minus ubere glebâ, Augusto quam magna tulit sub Caesare Roma; Hoc Tibi debetur Comes illustrissime secli: Nam postquam per te patuit, populoque refulsit Ars Flacci, vatum surrexit vivida proles Divinis instructa modis & carmine puro. jam non sola sequi vestigia sacra Maronis Sed transferre datur: Vos O gaudete superbi Angligenae, meritisque virum redimite corollis Quem penes arbitrium est & jus & norma loquendi. Nam duce Te vatum series aeterna sequetur, Qui tentare modos ausi immortalis Homeri, Heroasque, Deosque canent, plausuque secundo Non male ceratis tendent super aethera pennis. Et tua, docte Maro, (ni fallor) carmina reddent Majestate pari; dum laeta vagaberis umbra Per sacrum spatiata nemus: Versuque Britanno Aeneadas mirata cani, bellumque, ducesque Et Pastoris Oves, his vocibus or a resolves. Quam bene Te poteram patulis amplectier ulnis Magne Comes, nostrae O famae defensor & haeres! Nunc licet insulsi vertant mea scripta Poetae, Mollior ac Elegis Ovidî sonet Ilias, ausit Maevius infaelix calamo disperdere Versus, Cuncta piat Silenus, & haud imitabile carmen Prima quod infantis cecinit cunabula mundi Durabit, famamque per omne tuebitur aevum. Grandibus ille modis & mirâ pingitur arte: Per Te, Dulce decus, nostri viget ille laboris Relliquiae, multum Britico celebrandus in ore. Tu Genio da fraena tuo, nec voce beatam Hâc tristere animam— cape dona extrema Tuorum. Carmina adhuc cineri exequias persolve Maronis, Pulchrior in tanta splendet mea gloria musâ. Plurimus Angligenum manibus versabere, plebi Sordebunt excusa ducum simulacra tabellis; Te melius vivo pingentem carmine cernent. Dum translatorum sudant ignobile vulgus, Vt captent oculos Phaleris, & imagine falsâ Lactent lectorem, & vanâ dulcedine pascant; Me mihi restituis versu, sensusque latentes Eruis, & duplicem reddit tua charta Maronem. E Collegio S. S. & Individuae Trin. Cant. Carolus Dryden. To the EARL of ROSCOMON, ON HIS Excellent POEM. AS when by labouring Stars new Kingdoms rise The mighty Mass in rude confusion lies, A Court unformed, disorder at the Bar, And even in Peace the rugged Mien of War, Till some wise Statesman into Method draws The parts, and Animates the frame with Laws; Such was the case when Chaucer's early toil Founded the Muse's Empire in our Soyl. Spencer improved it with his painful hand But lost a Noble Muse in Fairy-land. Shakespeare said all that Nature could impart, And johnson added Industry and Art. Cowley, and Denham gained immortal praise; And some who merit as they wear, the Bays. Searched all the Treasuries of Greece, and Rome, And brought the precious spoils in Triumph home. But still our language had some ancient rust, Our flights were often high but seldom just. There wanted one who licence could restrain, Make Civil Laws o'er Barbarous Usage reign: One worthy in Apollo's Chair to sit To hold the Scales, and give the Stamp of Wit. In whom ripe judgement and Young fancy meet, And force Poetic Rage to be discreet. Who grows not nauseous whiles he strives to please: But marks the Shelves in the Poetic Seas. Who knows, and teaches what our Clime can bear And makes the barren ground obey the labourer's care. Few could conceive, none the great work could do, 'tis a fresh province, and reserved for You. Those Talents all are yours, of which but One, Were a Fair Fortune for a Muses Son. Wit, reading, judgement, conversation, art, A head well balanced, and a generous heart. While insect Rhymes cloud the polluted Sky, Created to molest the world, and die. Your File does polish, what your Fancy cast, Works are long forming which must always last, Rough iron sense, and stubborn to the Mould Touched by your Chymic hand is turned to Gold, A secret Grace fashions the slowing lines, And inspiration thro' the Labour shines. Writers in spite of all their paint and Art, Betray the darling passion of their heart. No Fame you wound, give no chaste ears offence. Still true to Friendship, Modesty, and Sense. So Saints from Heaven for our example sent, Live to their Rules, have nothing to repent. Horace, if living, by exchange of fate, Would give no Laws, but only yours translate. Hoist Sail, bold Writers, search, discover far, You have a Compass for a Polar-Star. Tune Orpheus Harp, and with enchanting Rhymes Soften the savage humour of the Times. Tell all those untouched Wonders which appeared When Fate itself for our Great Monarch feared: Securely thro' the dangerous Forest led By guards of Angels when his own were fled. Heaven kindly exercised his Youth with Cares To crown with unmixed joys his riper years. Make Warlike James' peaceful virtues known, The Second Hope and Genius of the Throne. Heaven in compassion brought him on our Stage To tame the fury of a monstrous Age. But what blessed voice shall your Maria sing? Or a fit offering to her Altars bring? In joys, in grief, in triumphs, in retreat, Great always, without aiming to be Great. True Roman Majesty adorns her Face; And every gesture 's formed by every Grace. Her beauties are too Heavenly, and refined, For the Gross Senses of a Vulgar mind. It is your part, (you Poets can divine) To prophesy how she by Heaven's design Shall give an Heir to the Great British Line, Who over all the Western Isles shall reign, Both awe the Continent, and rule the Main. It is Your Place to wait upon her Name Thro the vast regions of Eternal fame. True Poets souls to Princes are allied, And the World's Empire with its Kings divide. Heaven trusts the present time to Monarch's care, Eternity is the Good Writers share. Knightly Chetwood. To the Earl of Roscomon, on his Excellent Essay on Translated Verse. WHile satire pleased and nothing else was writ But pure ill nature passed for noblest Wit. Some privileged Climes the poisonous weeds refuse: But when a generous understanding Muse Does richer fruits from happier Soils Translate, W' are sent to Ireland, by reverse of fate. Yet you, I know with Plato would disdain To write and equal the Maeonian strain; If 'twould debauch your humour so far forth To think so mean a thing, enhanced your worth. For were, that praise and only that your due, Which Virgil too might claim no less than you, Tho that had merited my bare esteem, I'd leave to other pens the single theme. But when I saw the Candour of your mind, A Muse inur'd to Camps, in Courts refined, A Soul even capable of being a friend, Free from those follies which the great attend; I grant such excellence my Soul did fire, Unable to commend, I will admire. " Happy the man when no concern is nigh, " But Nature's, wanton and his blood runs high, " Who free from cares enjoys without control, " His Muse, the darling Mistress of his soul, " No tedious Court his appetite destroys, " Nor thoughts of gain pollute the rapturous Joys. " The Dear Minerva's formed without a pain " And nothing less, could spring from such a brain. " And yet his Godlike pity he imparts " To those that drudge at Duty against their hearts " And to illiberal uses wrest the Liberal Arts— When I observe the wonders you explain▪ Too much the ancients you commend— in vain In vain you would endeavour to persuade, That all our Rites were in those Archives laid: That Poetry must ever stand unmoved, The only Art Experience han't improved. But grant all this were to Religion grown, Sure they concern no Countries but their own: For let the Aeneid pass through other hands, And Virgil's self a third-rate Poet stands. Unfit to reach the heights that he has flown, We wisely to our level bring him down. Himself had writ less sweet, and less sublime In any other tongue or other time. And now, my Lord, on this account I grieve, To think how different from yourself you'll live. When this inimitable piece is shown, In Languages and Empires yet unknown. It will be Learning then to know and hear Not only what you wrote, but what you were. I. Amherst. Cum Opus suum Manuscriptum, una cum eleganti Carmine Latino sibi mitteret Illustrissimus Author, ita respondit: K. C. AVlae dulce decus, quem culta Britannia vellet, Scotia seque tibi vix peperisse, putat; Quid, mihi dum nunquam peritura volumina mittis, Me; nisi mirari, dulcis amice, velis? Scripta tua in melius qui singere possit, Apellis Is Venerem, Phidiae possit & ille Jovem: Concilio ille juvet miscentem elementa Tonantem, Rectius & soli scribere possit iter. Res sancta est, surgens vestra ad fastigia, vates, Cui praesens semper pectora numen babet. Quantum est victuris victuras condere leges, In litem lauros & revocare novam! Extinctis vitam dare res est quanta! sed ipse Quantus! pars minima est Musa diserta Tui. AN ESSAY ON Translated Verse. HAppy that Author, whose correct Essay Repairs so well our Old Horatian way; And happy those, who, (if concurring Stars Praedestinate them to Poetic Wars) With Pains, and leisure, by such Precepts write; And learn to use their arms before they fight. But since the Press, the Pulpit, and the Stage, Join all their forces, to invade our Age. Provoked, and urged, we, resolutely must To the few Virtues that we have, be just. For who have longed, or who have laboured more, To search the Treasures of the Roman store; Or dig in Grecian Mines for purer Oar? The noblest Fruits Transplanted, in our Isle With early Hope, and fragrant Blossoms smile. Familiar Ovid tender Thoughts inspires, And Nature seconds all his soft Desires: Theocritus does now to Us belong; And Albion's Rocks repeat his Rural Song. Who has not heard how Italy was blest, Above the Medes, above the wealthy East? Or Gallus Song, so tender, and so True, As even Lycoris might with pity view! When Mourning Nymphs attend their Daphnis Hearse, Who does not Weep, that Reads the moving Verse! But hear, oh hear, in what exalted strains Sicilian Muses through these happy Plains, Proclaim Saturnian Times, our own Apollo Reigns. When France had breathed, after intestine Broils, And Peace, and Conquest crowned her foreign Toils, There (cultivated by a Royal Hand) Learning grew fast, and spread, and blest the Land; The choicest Books, that Rome, or Greece have known, Her excellent Translators made her own: And Europe must acknowledge, that she gains, Both by their good Example and their Pains. From hence our generous Emulation came, We undertook, and we performed the same. But now, We show the world a nobler Way, And in Translated Verse, do more than They. Serene, and clear, Harmonious Horace flows, With sweetness not to be expressed in Prose. Degrading Prose explains his meaning ill, And shows the Stuff, but not the Workman's skill. I (who have served him more than twenty years) Scarce know my Master as He there appears. Vain are our Neighbours Hopes, and Vain their Cares, The Fault is more their Languages, than theirs. 'Tis copious, florid, pleasing to your Ear; With softness, more perhaps, then Ours can bear. But who did ever in French Authors see The Comprehensive, English Energy? The weighty Bullion of One Sterling Line, Drawn to French Wire, would through whole Pages Shine. I speak my Private, but Impartial sense, With Freedom, and (I hope) without offence: For I'll Recant, when France can show me Wit▪ As strong as Ours, and as succinctly Writ. 'Tis true, Composing is the Nobler Part, But good Translation is no easy Art: For though Materials have long since been found, Yet both your fancy, and your Hands are bound; And by Improving what was writ Before; Invention Labours Less, but judgement, more. The Soil intended for Pierian seeds, Must be well purged from rank Pedantic Weeds. Apollo starts, and All Parnaffus shakes, At the rude Rumbling Baralipton makes. For None have been, with Admiration, read, But who (beside their Learning) were Well-Bred. The first great work, (a Task performed by Few) Is, that yourself may to yourself be True: No Masque, no Tricks, no Favour, no Reserve; Dissect your Mind, examine every Nerve. Whoever Vainly on his strength depends, Begins like Virgil, but like Maevius, Ends. That wretch (in spite of his forgotten Rhymes) Condemned to Live to all succeeding Times, With pompous Nonsense and a bellowing sound, Sung lofty Ilium, Tumbling to the Ground. For (if my Muse can through past Ages see) That Noisy, Nauseous, Gaping Fool was He; Exploded, when with universal scorn, A Mountain Laboured and a Mouse was Born. Learn, learn, Crotona's brawny Wrestler cries Audacious Mortals, and be Timely Wise! 'Tis I that call, remember Milo's End, Wedged in that Timber which He strove to Rend. Each Poet, with a different Talon writes, One Praises, One Instructs, Another Bites. Horace did nereaspire to Epic Bays, Nor lofty Maro stooped to Lyric Lays. Examine how your Humour is inclined, And which the Ruling Passion of your Mind; Then, seek a Poet who your way does bend, And choose an Author as you choose a Friend. United by this Sympathetick Bond, You grow Familiar, Intimate and Fond; Your Thoughts, your Words, your Styles, your Souls agree, No Longer his Interpreter, but Herald With how much ease is a young Muse Betrayed, How nice the Reputation of the Maid! Your early, kind, paternal care appears, By chaste Instruction of her Tender Years. The first Impression in her Infant Breast, As 'tis the deepest, aught to be the Best: No rigid Awe should breed a servile Fear, No wanton Sound offend her Virgin-Ear. Secure from foolish Pride's Affected state, And Specious Flattery's more pernicious Bait, Habitual Innocence adorns each Thought, And 'tis your Crime if She commit a Faued▪ Immodest words (whatever the Pretence) Always want Decency, and often, Sense. What moderate Fop would rake the Park, or Stews, Who among Troops of faultless Nymphs may choose? Variety of Such is to be found; Take then a Subject, proper to Expound: But Moral, Great, and worth a Poet's Voice, For Men of Sense despise a trivial Choice: And such Applause it must expect to meet, As would some Painter, busy in a Street, To Copy Bulls and Bears, and every Sign That calls the Staring Sots to nasty Wine. Yet 'tis not all to have a Subject, Good, It must Delight us when 'tis understood. He that brings fulsome Objects to my View, (As many Old have done, and many New) With nauseous Images my Fancy fills, And all goes down Like Oxymel of Squills. Instruct the lift'ning world how Maro sings Of useful subjects, and of lofty Things. There will such true, such bright Ideas raise, As merit Gratitude, as well as Praise. But foul Descriptions are Offensive still, Either for being Like, or being iii. For who, without a Qualm, hath ever looked, On Holy Garbage, though by Homer Cooked? Whose Railing Heroe's, and whose wounded Gods, Make some suspect, He Snores, as well as Nods. But I offend— Virgil begins to Frown, And Horace looks with Indignation down; My blushing Muse with Conscious Fear retires, And whom They Like, Implicitly Admires. On sure Foundations let your Fabric Rise, And with inviting Majesty surprise, Not by affected, meretricious Arts, But strict harmonious Symmetry of Parts. Which through the Whole, insensibly must pass, With vital Heat to Animate the Mass. A pure, an Active, an Auspicious Flame, And bright as Heaven, from whence the Blessing came; But, few, oh, few, Souls, praeordained by Fate, The Race of Gods, have reached that envied Height. No Rebel-Titan 's sacrilegious Crime, By heaping Hills on Hills can thither climb. The grizly Ferry man of Hell denied Aeneas entrance, till he knew his Guide; How justly then will impious Mortals fall, Whose Pride would soar to Heaven▪ without a Call? Pride (of all others the most dangerous Faued,) Proceeds from Ignorance, and want of Thought, The Men, who labour and digest things most, Will be much apt to despond, than boast. For if your Author be profoundly good, 'Twill cost you dear before he's understood. How many Ages since has Virgil writ? How few are they who understand him yet? Approach his Altars with religious Fear, No petty Deity inhabits there: Heaven shakes not more at Jove's imperial Nod, Then Poets should before their Mantuan God. Hail mighty MARO! may that Sacred Name▪, Kindle my Breast with thy celestial Flame; Sublime Ideas, and apt Words infuse. The Muse instruct my Voice, and Thou inspire the Muse! What I have instanced only in the best, Is, in proportion true of All the rest▪ Take pains the genuine Meaning to explore, There Sweat, there Strain, tug the laborious Oar: Search every Comment, that your Care can find, Some here, some there, may hit the Poet's Mind; Yet be not blindly guided by the Throng; Which has been, and is often in the Wrong. When Things appear unnatural or hard, Consult your Author, with Himself compared; Who knows what Blessing Phoebus may bestow, And future Ages to your labour owe? Such Secrets are not easily found out, But once Discovered, leave no Room for Doubt▪ Truth Stamps▪ Conviction in your Ravished Breast▪ And Peace and joy attend the glorious Guest▪ Yet if one shadow of a Scruple stay▪ Sure the most beaten is the safest way. Fear is the base Companion of a Slave, But Prudence the Perfection of the Brave▪ Truth still is One; Truth is Divinely bright, No cloudy Doubts obscure her Native Light. While in your Thoughts you find the least Debate You may Confound, but never can Translate. Your Style will this through all Disguises show, For None, explain, more clearly than they Know▪ He only proves he Understands a Text, Whose Exposition leaves it unperplexed. They who too formally on Names insist, Rather Create then Dissipate the Mist. And grow Unjust by being over nice, (For Superstitious Virtue turns to Vice.) Judicious Horace used a Parthian Name, ●th. Ode ●d. (Rome was no Stranger to Mon●ese's Fame,) Yet since the Victor is but little known, But Crassus' more for being overthrown. The Roman for the Parthian Name will be, A Tedious Comment's True Epitome. Words in One Language Elegantly used, Will hardly in another be excused. And some that Rome admired in Caesar's Time, May neither suit Our Genius nor our Clime. The Genuine Sense, intelligibly Told, Shows a Translator both Discreet, and Bold. Excursions are inexpiably Bad, For 'tis much safer to leave out, than Add. Be not too fond of a Sonorous Line; Good Sense will through a plain expression shine. Few Painters can such Master strokes command, As are the noblest in a skilful Hand. In This, your Author will the best advice, Fall when He falls, and when He Rises, Rise. Affected Noise is the most wretched Thing, That to Contempt can Empty Scribblers bring. Vowels and Accents, Regularly placed On even Syllables (and still the Last) Tho all imaginable Faults abound, Will never want the Pageantry of Sound. Whatever Sister of the learned Nine Does to your Suit a willing Ear incline, Urge your success deserve a lasting Name, She'll Crown a Grateful and a Constant Flame. But if a wild Uncertainty prevail, And turn your Veering heart with every Gale, You lose the Fruits of all your former care, For the sad Prospect of a Just Despair. A Quack (too scandalously Mean to Name) Had, by Man Midwifery, got Wealth, and Fame; As if Luc●●a had forgot her Trade, The Labouring Wife invoks his surer Aid. Well seasoned Bowls the Gossips' Spirits raise, Who, while she Guzzles, Chats the Doctor's Praise. And largely, what she wants in Words, supplies, With Maudlin-Eloquence of trickling Eyes. But what a thoughtless Animal is Man, (How very Active in his own Trepan!) For greedy of Physicians frequent Fees, From Female Mellow Praise He takes Degrees: Struts in a new 〈◊〉 Gown, and then, From saving Women falls to Killing Men. Another Such had left the Nation, Thin, In spite of all the Children He brought in. His Pills, as thick as Hand Granades flew, And where they Fell, as Certainly, they Slew. His Name struck every where as great a Damp As Archimedes through the Roman Camp. With This, the Doctor's Pride began to Cool, For Smarting sound may convince a Fool. But now Repentance came too late, for Grace; And meager Famine stared him in the Face. Fain would He to the Wives be reconciled, But found no Husband left to Own a Child. The Friends, that Got the Brats, were poisoned too; In such Distress what could our Vermin do? Worried with Debts, and past all Hope of Bail, Th' unpitied Wretchlies Rotting in a jail. And There, with Basket-Alms, scarce kept Alive, Shows how Mistaken Talents ought to Thrive. I Pity, from my Soul, Unhappy men, Compelled by want to Prostitute their Pen; Who must, like Lawyers, either Starve, or Plead, And follow, right or wrong, where Guynys Led; But you, Pompilian wealthy, pampered Heirs, Who to your Country owe your Swords, and Cares. Let no vain hope your easy mind seduce, For Rich Ill Poets are without Excuse. 'Tis very Dangerous, Tampering with a Muse, The Profit's small, and you have much to Iose; For, though true Wit adorns your Birth, or Place, Degenerate lines degrade th' attainted Race. No Poet any Passion can Excite; But what they feel transport them when they write. Have you been led through the Cumaean Cave. And heard th' Impatient Maid Divinely Rave? I hear her now; I see her Rolling Eyes; And panting; Lo! the God, the God she cries; With words, not Hers, and more than humane sound, She makes the obedient Ghosts peep trembling thro' the ground But though we must obey when heaven Commands, And man in vain the Sacred Call withstands, Beware what Spirit rages in your breast. For ten inspired ten thousand are Possessed. Thus make the proper use of each Extreme, And write with fury but correct with Phleam. As when the Cheerful hours too freely Pass, And sparkling wine smiles in the tempting Glass, Your Pulse advises, and Begins to beat Through Every swelling Vein a loud retreat. So when a Muse Propitiously invites Improve her favours, and Indulge her flights, But when you find that Vigorous heat abate, Leave off, and for another summons wait. Before the Radiant Sun, a Glimmering Lamp; Adulterate Metals to the Sterling Stamp, Appear not meaner, than mere humane Lines, Compared with those whose Inspiration shines; These, Nerucus, bold; those Languid, and remiss; There, cold salutes, But here, a Lovers kiss. Thus have I seen a Rapid, headlong Tide, With foaming Waves the Passive Soan Divide Whose Lazy Waters without Motion lay While he, with eager force, urged his Impetuous way. The Privilege that Ancient Poets claim Now turned to Licence by too just a Name; Belongs to none but an Established Fame, Which scorns to Take it— Absurd Expressions, crude, Abortive Thoughts, All the lewd Legion of Exploded fau't, Base Fugitives to that Asylum fly, And sacred Laws with Insolence Defy. Not thus our Heroes of the former Days, Deserved, and Gained their never fading Bays; For I mistake, or far the greatest Part, Of what some call Neglect was studied Art. When Virgil, seems to Trifle in a Line, 'Tis like a Warning-Piece, which gives the Sign To Wake your Fancy, and prepare your Sight, To reach the noble Height of some unusual Flight. I lose my Patience, when, with Saucy Pride, By untuned Ears I hear His Numbers tried. Reverse of Nature! shall such Copies, then Arrain th' Originals of Maro's Pen! And the rude Notions of Pedantic Schools Blaspheme the sacred Founder of Our Rules! The Delicacy of the nicest Ear Finds nothing harsh, or out of Order There Sublime or Low, unbended or Intense, The sound is still a Comment to the Sense. A skilful Ear, in Numbers should preside, And all Disputes without Appeal decide. This ancient Rome, and Elder Athens found, Before mistaken stops debauched the sound. When, by Impulse from Heaven, Tyrtaeus Sung, In drooping Soldiers a new Courage sprung; Reviving Spartans now the fight maintained, And what Two Generals Lost, a Poet Gained. By secret Influence of Indulgent Skies, Empire, and Poesy Together rise. True Poets are the Guardians of a State, And when They Fail, portend approaching Fate. For that which Rome to Conquest did Inspire, Was not the Vestal, but the Muse's sire; Heaven joins the Blessings, no declining Age, ere felt the Raptures of Poetic Rage. Of many faults, Rhyme is (perhaps) the Cause, Too strict to Rhyme We slight more useful Laws. For That, in Greece or Rome, was never known, Till By Barbarian Deluges oreslown, Subdued, Undone, They did at Last, Obey, And change their Own for their Invaders way. I grant that from some Mossy, Idol Oak In Double Rhymes our Thor and Woden spoke; And by Succession of unlearned Times, As Bards began so Monks Rung on the Chimes. But now that Phoebus and the sacred Nine, With all their Beams on our blessed Island shine, Why should not We their ancient Rites restore And be, what Rome or Athens were Before? O may I Live to see that glorious Day, And sing loud Paeans through the Crowded way When in Triumphant state the British Muse True to her self shall Barbarous aid refuse. And in that Roman Majesty appear, Which none knows better and none Comes so near. FINIS.