There as Apollo moves with graceful pace A thousand glories play around his face In fplendor drest he joins the feftive band, 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 Miscellanies. Written in the year 1755. INCE now, all scruples caft away, SINCE Your works are rifing into day, Forgive, though I prefume to send This honeft counsel of a friend. Let not your verse, as verfe now goes, -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 The day, the hour, the name, the dwelling, Then runs his numbers down to profe. Others have fought the filthy stews The bogs, the common-few'rs, and jakes, Difguftful to our eyes and nofes; With many a dash And much that must offend us, ** Hiatus non deflendus. O Swift how wouldft thou blush to fee, This Milton for his plan will chuse : Wherein resembling Milton's Muse ? Milton, like thunder, rolls along His faults religiously you trace, But borrow not a single 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 reason's plain. Take it for granted, 'tis by those Milton's the model mostly chose, Who can't write verfe, and won't write profe. Others, who aim at fancy, chuse To wooe the gentle Spenser's Muse. This poet fixes for his theme An allegory, or a dream; Fiction and truth together joins Through a long waste of flimfy lines; And image upon image grows; Thinks his ftrong Mufe takes wond'rous flights, Whene'er the fings of peerless wights, Of dens, of palfreys, fpells and knights: T' inftruct and please in moral tale, Others, more daring, fix their hope On rivaling the fame of Pope. Satyr's the word, against the times These catch the cadence of his rhymes, And borne from earth by Pope's ftrong wings, Their Muse aspires, and boldly flings Her dirt up in the face of kings. |