RECOMMENDATORY POEMS.

TO

MR DRYDEN,

ON HIS EXCELLENT

TRANSLATION OF VIRGIL.

WHENE'ER great Virgil's lofty verse I see,
The pompous scene charms my admiring eye.
There different beauties in perfection meet;
The thoughts as proper, as the numbers sweet;
And, when wild Fancy mounts a daring height,
Judgment steps in, and moderates her flight.
Wisely he manages his wealthy store,

Still says enough, and yet implies still more:
For, though the weighty sense be closely wrought,
The reader's left to improve the pleasing thought.
Hence we despair'd to see an English dress
Should e'er his nervous energy express;
For who could that in fetter'd rhyme enclose,
Which, without loss, can scarce be told in prose?
But you, great Sir, his manly genius raise,
And make your copy share an equal praise.
Oh! how I see thee, in soft scenes of love,
Renew those passions he alone could move!
Here Cupid's charms are with new art exprest,
And pale Eliza leaves her peaceful rest-
Leaves her Elysium, as if glad to live,
To love, and wish, to sigh, despair, and grieve,
And die again for him that would again deceive.

Nor does the mighty Trojan less appear
Than Mars himself, amidst the storms of war.
Now his fierce eyes with double fury glow,
And a new dread attends the impending blow:
The Daunian chiefs their eager rage abate,
And, though unwounded, seem to feel their fate.
Long the rude fury of an ignorant age,
With barbarous spite, profaned his sacred page.
The heavy Dutchmen, with laborious toil,
Wrested his sense, and cramp'd his vigorous style.
No time, no pains, the drudging pedants spare,
But still his shoulders must the burden bear;
While, through the mazes of their comments led,
We learn, not what he writes, but what they read.
Yet, through these shades of undistinguish'd night,
Appear'd some glimmering intervals of light;
Till mangled by a vile translating sect,
Like babes by witches in effigie rackt:
Till Ogleby, mature in dulness, rose,

And Holbourn doggrel, and low chiming prose,
His strength and beauty did at once depose.
But now the magic spell is at an end,

Since even the dead, in you, have found a friend.
You free the bard from rude oppressors' power,
And grace his verse with charms unknown before.
He, doubly thus obliged, must doubting stand,
Which chiefly should his gratitude command-
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 verse renew'd: We saw thee raise soft Ovid's amorous fire, And fit the tuneful Horace to thy lyre: We saw new gall imbitter Juvenal's pen, And crabbed Persius made politely plain. Virgil alone was thought too great a taskWhat you could scarce perform, or we durst ask; A task, which Waller's Muse could ne'er engage ; A task, too hard for Denham's stronger rage. Sure of success, they some slight sallies tried ; But the fenced coast their bold attempts defied : With fear, their o'ermatch'd forces back they drew, Quitting the province Fate reserved for you. In vain thus Philip did the Persians storm; A work his son was destined to perform.

O! had Roscommon lived to hail the day, And sing loud Pæans through the crowded way,

* Essay of Translated Verse, p. 26.

It long has been this sacred 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.