But I will not trespass further on my reader's patience in profé, since I shall have occafion enough for it, as well as for his good-nature, in the following verses ; concerning which I must acquaint him, that fome of them were written feveral years fince, and that I have precisely observed the rule of our great master HoraceNonumque prematur in annum. But I may fay more justly than Mr. Prior faid of himself in the like cafe, that I have obferved the Letter, more than the Spirit of the precept.
To Mr. CHRISTOPHER PITT, on his Poems and Tranflations.
'ORGIVE th' ambitious fondness of a friend,
For fuch thy worth, 'tis glory to commend;
To thee, from judgment, fuch applause is due,
I praise myself while I am praising you;
As he who bears the lighted torch, receives
Himself affistance from the light he gives.
So much you please, so vaft is my delight,
Thy, ev'n thy fancy cannot reach its height.
In vain I ftrive to make the transport known,
No language can describe it but thy own.
Could't thou thy genius pour into my heart,
Thy copious fancy, thy engaging art,
Thy vigorous thoughts, thy manly flow of fenfe,
Thy ftrong and glowing paint of eloquence;
Then should'st thou well conceive that happiness,
Which I alone can feel, and you exprefs.
In fcenes which thy invention fets to view,
Forgive me, friend, if I lofe fight of you;
I fee with how much spirit Homer thought,
With how much judgment cooler Virgil wrote;
In every line, in every word you speak,
I read the Roman, and confefs the Greek;
Forgetting thee, my foul with rapture swell'd,
Cries out," how much the ancient bards excell'd!"
But when thy just translations introduce
To nearer converfe any Latian Muse,
The several beauties you so well express,
I lofe the Roman in the British drefs!
Sweetly deceiv'd, the ancients I contemn,
And with mistaken zeal to thee exclaim,
(By so much nature, so much art betray'd)
"What vaft improvements have our moderns made!"
How vain and unfuccefsful feems the toil,
To raise fuch precious fruits in foreign foil:
They mourn, transplanted to another coast,
Their beauties languid, and their flavour loft!
But fuch thy art, the ripening colours glow
As pure as those their native suns bestow;
Not an infipid beauty only yield,
But breathe the odours of Aufonia's field.
Such is the genuine flavour, it belies
Their ftranger foil, and unacquainted skies.
Vida no more the long oblivion fears, Which hid his virtues through a length of Ally'd to thee, he lives again; thy rhymes Shall friendly hand him down to latest times; Shall do his injur'd reputation right,
While in thy work with such success unite
His ftrength of judgment, and his charms of speech,
That precepts please, and music feems to teach.
Left unimprov'd I seem to read thee o'er,
Th' unhallow'd rapture I indulge no more;
By thee inftructed, I the task forfake,
Nor for chafte love, the luft of verse mistake;
Thy works that rais'd this frenzy in my foul,
Shall teach the giddy tumult to control:
Warm'd as I am with every Mufe's charms,
Since the coy virgins fly my eager arms,
* I'll quit the work, throw by my ftrong desire,
And from thy praife, reluctantly retire.
*See Mr. Pitt's tranflation of Vida.
An Epistle to Dr. EDWARD YOUNG, at Eaftbury, in Dorfetfhire, on the Review at
HILE with your Doddington retir'd
Charm'd with his flowing Burgundy and wit;
By turns relieving with the circling draught,
Each pause of chat, and interval of thought :
Or through the well-glaz'd tube, from bufinefs freed,
Draw the rich fpirit of the Indian weed;
Or bid your eyes o'er Vanbrugh's models roam,
And trace in miniature the future dome
(While bufy fancy with imagin'd power
Builds up
the work of ages in an hour);
Or, loft in thought, contemplative you rove,
Through opening vifta's, and the fhady grove;
Where a new Eden in the wilds is found,
And all the feafons in a spot of ground :
There, if you exercise your tragic rage,
To bring fome hero on the British stage;
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