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 verfe renew'd :
We saw thee raise soft Ovid's amorous fire,
And fit the tuneful Horace to thy lyre :
We faw new gall imbitter Juvenal's pen,
And crabbed Perseus made politely plain :
Virgil alone was thought too great a task ;
What

you could scarce perform, or we durst ask :
A taik! which Waller's Muse could ne'er engage ;
A talk ! too hard for Denham's stronger rage :
Sure of success they fome slight sallies try’d,
But the fenc'd coast their bold attempts defy’d.
With fear their o'er-match'd forces back they drew,
Quitted the province Fate resery'd for you.
In vain thus Philip did the Persians storm ;
A work his son was destin'd to perform.

“ O had Roscommon liv'd to hail the day, “ And sing loud Pæans through the crowded way; “ When you in Roman majesty appear, “ Which none know better, and none come so near :" The happy author would with wonder see, His rules were only prophecies of thee : And were he now to give translators 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 must press for new :

Th’expecting world demands one labour more;
And thy lovd Homer does thy aid implore,

Το

B 3

To right his injur'd works, and set them free
From the lewd rhymes of groveling Ogleby.
Then shall his verse in grateful pomp appear,
Nor will his birth renew the ancient jar;
On those Greek cities we shall look with scorn,
And in our Britain think the Poet born.

To MR. DR Y D E N,

ON HIS

TRANSLATION OF VIRGIL.

WE

I.
E read, how dreams and visions 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 shade
But for a while vouchsafe to bear the light;

To grace my numbers, and that Mufe to aid,
Who sings the Poet that has done him right.

a

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

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

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

And while his Muse endeavours to disclose
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 design, Have wish'd it better, or have done so much.

VI.

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

You, who secure might other dangers see, And safe from all malicious censures sit.

VII.

Yet because sacred 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 periíh with your fire.

VIII.

Ev'n first and last, we owe him half to you, For that his Æneids miss'd their threatned fate,

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

IX.

B 4

IX.

But hold, my Muse, thy needless flight restrain, Unless, like him, thou couldít a verse indite :

To think his fancy to describe 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 modest Painter, I Muft draw the veil, where I cannot express.

HENRY GRAHME,

TO MR. DR Y DE N.

a

N undisputed Monarch govern’d yet

With universal sivay the realms of wit;
Nature could never such expence afford ;
Each several province own'd a feveral 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 lessen'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 universal monarch crown'd.

Your

Your mighty fway your great defert secures,
And

every Muse and every Grace is yours,
To none confin’d, by turns you all enjoy,
Sated with this, you to another fiy.
So Sultan-like in your seraglio stand,
While withing 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, spite of age; in spite of weakness, strong.
Time, like Alcides, ftrikes you to the ground:
You, like Antæus, from each fall rebound.

H. ST. JOHN.

To MR. DR Y DE N,

ON

HIS

V I R

G I L.

a

TIS said that Phidias gave such living grace

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

You pass’d that artist, Sir, and all his powers,
Making the best of Roman Poets ours ;
With such effect, we know not which to call
The imitation, which th' original.

What