means the spirit 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 (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 sense 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 fuppofe 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 nofe 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 notorioufly trivial, or difhoneft: but the fame answer will ferve for both, that then they ought not to be tranflated: Et quæ

Defperes tractata nitefcere 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 consists in adding new beauties to the piece, thereby to recompenfe 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 reafon, why we have fo few verfions 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 translation, and that there is fo little praife, and so fo fmall encouragement, for fo confiderable a part of learning.

CANACE TO MACAREUS.

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 exposed to wild beafts on the mountains: and withal, fent a fword 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 fanctuary in the temple of Apollo.

IF ftreaming blood my fatal letter stain,
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'ft me write: 5
In this my cruel father would delight.

O! were he prefent, that his eyes and hands Might fee, and urge, the death which he com

mands !

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 blaft,

Are underneath his wide dominion caft:
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!

16

What help will all my heav'nly friends afford, When to my breast I lift the pointed sword? 20 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 fifter's love? For I lov'd too; and, knowing not my wound,

A fecret pleasure in thy kiffes found:

26

My cheeks no longer did their color boast,
My food grew loathfome, and my ftrength I

loft:

Still ere I fpoke, a figh would stop my tongue; Short were my flumbers, and my nights were

30

long. I knew not from love thefe griefs did grow,

my

Yet was, alas, the thing I did not know.
My wily nurse, by long experience, found,
And firft difcover'd to my foul its wound.
'Tis love, faid fhe; and then my down-caft

eyes,

35

And guilty dumbnefs, witnefs'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."

40

But now my fwelling womb heav'd up my breast, And rifing weight my finking limbs opprest. What herbs, what plants, did not my nurfe produce,

4.5

To make abortion by their pow'rful juice?
What medicines try'd we not, to thee unknown?
Our firft crime common; this was mine alone.
But the ftrong child, fecure in his dark cell,
With nature's vigor 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:

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