Drawn by the magic found, the Virgin-Nine
With warblings fweet the facred minstrel join :
Now with glad heart, loud voice, and jocund lays
Full fweetly carol bounteous heaven's praise ;
And now in dirges fad, and numbers flow
Relate the piteous tale of human woe;

Woe, by the Gods on wretched mortals caft,
Who vainly shun affliction's wintry blast,

And all in vain attempt with fond delay

Death's certain fhaft to ward, or chafe old age away.

The Graces there, and fmiling Hours are seen, And Cytherea, laughter-loving queen,

And Harmony, and Hebe, lovely band,

To sprightlieft measures dancing hand in hand.
There, of no common port or vulgar mien,
With heavenly radiance, fhines the Huntress-Queen,
Warbles refponfive to the golden lyre,

Tunes her glad notes, and joins the virgin choir.
There Mars and Mercury with awkward play,
And uncouth gambols, wafte the live-long day.

7

There

There as Apollo moves with graceful pace
A thousand glories play around his face;
In fplendor drest he joins the festive band,
And sweeps the golden lyre with magic hand,
Mean while, Latona and imperial Jove

Eye the bright Godhead with parental love;
And, as the Deities around him play,

Well pleas'd his goodly mien and awful port furvey*.

The translator, when he begun this piece, had fome thoughts of giving a complete English verfion of all Homer's Hymns, being the only parts of his works never yet tranflated; but (to say nothing of his opinion of this fpecimen of his tranflation) fearing that this fpecies of poetry, though it has its beauties, and does not want admirers among the learned, would appear far lefs agreeable to the mere English reader, he defifted. They, who would form the jufteft idea of this fort of compofition among the ancients, may be better informed, by perufing Dr. Akenfide's moft claffical Hymn to the Naiads, than from any tranflation of Homer or Callimachus.

то

то

About to publish a volume of Mifcellanies.

Written in the year 1755.

INCE now, all fcruples caft away,

Your works are rifing into day, Forgive, though I prefume to fend This honeft counsel of a friend.

Let not your verse, as verfe now goes,
Be a strange kind of meafur'd profe ;
Nor let your profe, which fure is worse,
Want nought but measure to be verse.
Write from your own imagination,
Nor curb your Muse by Imitation :
For copies fhew, howe'er expreft,
A barren genius at the best.

But Imitation's all the mode

Yet where one hits, ten mifs the road.

The mimic bard with pleasure fees

Mat. Prior's unaffected ease:

Affumes

Affumes his style, affects a story,
Sets every circumstance before ye,

The day, the hour, the name, the dwelling,

And mars a curious tale in telling:

Obferves how eafy Prior flows,

Then runs his numbers down to prose.

Others have fought the filthy ftews

To find a dirty flip-shod Muse.
Their groping genius, while it rakes
The bogs, the common-few'rs, and jakes,
Ordure and filth in rhyme expofes,
Disgustful to our eyes and nofes;

With many a dash that muft offend us,

Hiatus non deflendus.

O Swift! how wouldst thou blufh to fee,
Such are the bards who copy Thee?

This Milton for his plan will chuse : Wherein resembling Milton's Muse ?

Milton, like thunder, rolls along
In all the majefty of fong;

While his low mimics meanly creep,
Not quite awake, nor quite afleep :
Or, if their thunder chance to roll,
'Tis thunder of the muftard bowl.
The stiff expreffion, phrafes ftrange,
The epithet's prepofterous change,
Forc'd numbers, rough and unpolite,
Such as the judging ear affright,
Stop in mid verse. Ye mimics vile!
Is't thus ye copy Milton's style?
His faults religiously you trace,

But borrow not a fingle grace.

How few, (fay, whence can it proceed?) Who copy Milton, e'er fucceed!

But all their labours are in vain :

And wherefore fo? - The reafon's plain.

Take it for granted, 'tis by those

Milton's the model moftly chofe,

Who can't write verfe, and won't write profe.