before the tranflation of the second Æneid. "Poetry is of fo fubtle a spirit, that, in pouring out of one language into another, it will all evaporate; and, if a new spirit be not added in the transfufion, there will remain nothing but a Caput Mortuum." I confefs this argument holds good against a literal tranflation; but who defends it? Imitation and verbal verfion are in my opinion the two extremes, which ought to be avoided: and therefore, when I have propofed the mean betwixt them, it will be feen how far his argument will reach.

No man is capable of translating Poetry, who, befides a genius to that art, is not a master both of his author's language, and of his own: nor muft we underftand the language only of the Poet, but his particular turn of thoughts and expreffion, which are the characters that distinguish, and as it were individuate him from all other writers. When we are come thus far, it is time to look into ourselves, to conform our genius to his, to give his thought either the fame turn, if our tongue will bear it, or, if not, to vary but the dress, not to alter or destroy the substance. The like care must be taken of the more outward ornaments, the words. When they appear (which is but feldom) literally graceful, it were an injury to the author that they fhould be changed: but fince every language is fo full of its own proprieties, that what is beautiful in one, is often barbarous, nay fometimes nonsense in another, it would be unreasonable to limit a tranflator to the narrow compass of his author's words. It is enough if he choofe out fome expreffion which does not vitiate the fenfe. I suppose he may ftretch his chain to fuch a latitude; but, by innovation of thoughts, methinks, he breaks it. By this means the fpirit of an author may be transfufed, and yet not loft: and thus it is plain, that the reafon alledged by Sir John Denham has no farther force than to expreffion: for thought, if it be tranflated truly, cannot be loft in another language; but the words that convey it to our apprehenfion

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(which

(which are the image and ornament of that thought) may be fo ill chofen, as to make it appear in an unhandsome dress, and rob it of its native luftre. There is, therefore, a liberty to be allowed for the expreffion; neither is it neceffary that words and lines fhould be confined to the measure of their original. The fenfe of an author, generally fpeaking, is to be facred and inviolable. If the fancy of Ovid be luxuriant, it is his character to be fo; and if I retrench it, he is no longer Ovid. It will be replied, that he receives advantage by this lopping of his fuperfluous branches; but I rejoin, that a tranflator has no fuch right. When a painter copies from the life, I fuppose he has no privilege to alter features, and lineaments, under pretence that his picture will look better: perhaps the face, which he has drawn, would be more exact, if the eyes or nose were altered; but it is his business to make it refemble the original. In two cafes only there may a feeming difficulty arife; that is, if the thought be notoriously trivial, or difhoneft: but the fame answer will ferve for both, that then they ought not to be translated :

-Et que

Defperes tractata nitescere poffe, relinquas.

Thus I have ventured to give my opinion on this fubject against the authority of two great men, but I hope without offence to either of their memories; for I both loved them living, and reverence them now they are dead. But, if, after what I have urged, it be thought by better judges, that the praife of a tranflation confifts in adding new beauties to the piece, thereby to recompence the lofs which it fuftains by change of language, I fhall be willing to be taught better, and to recant. In the mean time, it seems to me, that the true reason, why we have fo few versions which are tolerable, is not from the too close purfuing of the author's fenfe, but because there are fo few, who have all the talents, which are requifite for tranflation, and that there is fo little praise, and so small encouragement, for fo confiderable a part of learning. CANACE

EPIST. XI.

THE ARGUMENT.

Macareus and Canace, fon and daughter to Eolus, God of the Winds, loved each other incestuously: Canace was delivered of a fon, and committed him to her nurse, to be fecretly conveyed away. The infant crying out, by that means was difcovered to Eolus, who, inraged at the wickedness of his children, commanded the babe to be expofed to wild beasts on the mountains: and withal, fent a ford to Canace, with this message, That her crimes would inftruct her how to use it. With this fword fhe flew herself: but before she died, fhe writ the following letter to her brother Macareus, who had taken Sanctuary in the temple of Apollo.

I

F ftreaming blood my fatal letter ftain,

Imagine, ere you read, the writer flain;
One hand the fword, and one the pen employs,
And in my lap the ready paper lies.

Think in this pofture thou behold'st me write :
In this my cruel father would delight.

O! were he present, that his eyes and hands!
Might fee, and urge, the death which he commands :
Than all the raging winds more dreadful, he,
Unmov'd, without a tear, my wounds would fee.
Jove juftly plac'd him on a ftormy throne,
His people's temper is fo like his own.

The North and South, and each contending blast,
Are underneath his wide dominion cast:
Those he can rule; but his tempeftuous mind
Is, like his airy kingdom, unconfin'd.
Ah! what avail my kindred Gods above,
That in their number I can reckon Jove!

What help will all my heav'nly friends afford,
When to my breast I lift the pointed sword?
That hour, which join'd us, came before its time:
In death we had been one without a crime.
Why did thy flames beyond a brother's move?
Why lov'd I thee with more than sister's love?
For I lov'd too; and knowing not my wound,
A fecret pleasure in thy kiffes found:
My cheeks no longer did their colour boast,
My food grew loathfome, and my ftrength I loft:
Still ere I fpoke, a figh would ftop my tongue;
Short were my flumbers, and my nights were long.
I knew not from my love these griefs did grow,
Yet was, alas, the thing I did not know.
My wily nurse by long experience found,
And first discover'd to my foul its wound.
'Tis love, faid fhe; and then my down-caft eyes,
And guilty dumbness, witness'd my furprize.
Forc'd at the laft, my fhameful pain I tell :
And, oh, what follow'd we both know too well!
"When half denying, more than half content,
"Embraces warm'd me to a full confent.
"Then with tumultuous joys my heart did beat,
"And guilt that made them anxious made them great.
But now my fwelling womb heav'd up my breast,
And rifing weight my finking limbs oppreft.
What herbs, what plants, did not my nurfe produce,
To make abortion by their pow'rful juice?
What med'cines try'd we not, to thee unknown?
Our first crime common; this was mine alone.
But the ftrong child, fecure in his dark cell,
With nature's vigour did our arts repel.
And now the pale-fac'd emprefs of the night
Nine times had fill'd her orb with borrow'd light:
Not knowing 'twas my labour, I complain
Of fudden fhootings, and of grinding pain:

My

My throes came thicker, and my cries increas'd,
Which with her hand the confcious nurfe fupprefs'd.
To that unhappy fortune was I come,

Pain urg'd my clamours, but fear kept me dumb.
With inward ftruggling I reftrain'd my cries,
And drunk the tears that trickled from my eyes.
Death was in fight, Lucina gave no aid;
And even my dying had my guilt betray'd.
Thou cam'ft, and in thy count'nance fate despair;
Rent were thy garments all, and torn thy hair :
Yet feigning comfort, which thou couldst not give,
(Preft in thy arms, and whifp'ring me to live :)
For both our fakes, (saidft thou) preserve thy life;
Live, my dear fifter, and my dearer wife.

Rais'd by that name, with my laft pangs I ftrove:
Such pow'r have words, when spoke by those we love.
The babe, as if he heard what thou hadst fworn,
With hafty joy sprung forward to be born.
What helps it to have weather'd out one storm?
Fear of our father does another form.

High in his hall, rock'd in a chair of state,
The king with his tempeftuous council fate.
Thro' this large room our only passage lay,
By which we could the new-born babe convey.
Swath'd in her lap, the bold nurse bore him out,
With olive branches cover'd round about;
And, mutt'ring pray'rs, as holy rites she meant,
Thro' the divided croud unquestion'd went.
Juft at the door, th' unhappy infant cry'd:
The grandfire heard him, and the theft he spy'd.
Swift as a whirlwind to the nurse he flies,
And deafs his ftormy fubjects with his cries.
With one fierce puff he blows the leaves away :
Expos'd the self-discover'd infant lay.
The noise reach'd me, and my prefaging mind
Too foon its own approaching woes divin'd.

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Nor