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To my Friend Mr. JOHN DRYDEN, on his several excellent Tranflations of the ancient Poets.

By G. GRANVILLE, Lord LANSDOWNE.

A

S flow'rs, tranfplanted from a fouthern sky,
But hardly bear, or in the raifing die;

Miffing their native fun, at beft retain

But a faint odour, and furvive with pain:
Thus ancient wit, in modern numbers taught,
Wanting the warmth with which its author wrote,
Is a dead image, and a fenfelefs draught.
While we transfufe, the nimble spirit flies,
Escapes unfeen, evaporates, and dies.
Who then to copy Roman wit defire,
Muft imitate with Roman force and fire,
In elegance of style and phrase the fame,
And in the sparkling genius, and the flame.
Whence we conclude from thy translated fong,
So juft, fo fmooth, fo foft, and yet fo ftrong,
Cœleftial poet! foul of harmony!

That every genius was reviv'd in thee.

Thy trumpet founds, the dead are rais'd to light,
Never to die, and take to heav'n their flight;
Deck'd in thy verfe, as clad with rays they shine,
All glorified, immortal, and divine.
As Britain in rich foil abounding wide,
Furnish'd for ufe, for luxury, and pride,
Yet fpreads her wanton fails on ev'ry shore
For foreign wealth, infatiate ftill of more;
To her own wool the filks of Asia joins,
And to her plenteous harvefts India's mines;
So Dryden, not contented with the fame
Of his own works, tho' an immortal name,

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Το

To lands remote fends forth his learned muse,
The nobleft feeds of foreign wit to choose :
Feafting our fenfe fo many various ways,
Say, is't thy bounty, or thy thirft of praise?
That by comparing others, all might fee,
Who most excel, are yet excell'd by thee.

To Mr. DRYDEN, by JOSEPH ADDISON, Efq;

HOW

OW long, great poet, fhall thy facred lays
Provoke our wonder, and tranfcend our praise!

Can neither injuries of time, or age,

Damp thy poetick heat, and quench thy rage?
Not fo thy Ovid in his exile wrote;

Grief chill'd his breaft, and check'd his rifing thought;
Penfive and fad, his drooping mufe betrays

The Roman genius in its laft decays.

Prevailing warmth has ftill thy mind poffeft,
And fecond youth is kindled in thy breast.
Thou mak'ft the beauties of the Romans known,
And England boasts of riches not her own :
Thy lines have heighten'd Virgil's majesty,
And Horace wonders at himself in thee.
Thou teacheft Perfius to inform our fle
In fmoother numbers, and a clearer ftyle:
And Juvenal, inftructed in thy page,
Edges his fatire, and improves his rage.
Thy copy cafts a fairer light on all,
And fill outfhines the bright original.

Now Ovid boasts th' advantage of thy fong,
And tells his story in the British tongue;
Thy charming verfe, and fair tranflations show
How thy own laurel firft began to grow;

How

How wild Lycaon, chang'd by angry Gods,
And frighted at himself, ran howling thro' the woods,
O may'st thou still the noble tale prolong,
Nor age, nor fickness interrupt thy fong:
Then may we wond'ring read, how human limbs
Have water'd kingdoms, and diffolv'd in ftreams,
Of thofe rich fruits that on the fertile mould
Turn'd yellow by degrees, and ripen'd into gold:
How fome in feathers, or a ragged hide,

Have liv'd a fecond life, and different natures try'd,
Then will thy Ovid, thus transform'd, reveal

A nobler change than he himself can tell.

Mag. Coll, Oxon,
June 2, 1693.

From Mr. ADDISON'S Account of the ENGLISH POETS.

B

UT fee where artful Dryden next appears,

Grown old in rhyme, but charming ev'n in years. Great Dryden next! whofe tuneful mufe affords The sweetest numbers and the fittest words.

Whether in comick founds, or tragick airs

She forms her voice, the moves our fmiles and tears. If fatire or heroick ftrains fhe writes,

Her hero pleases, and her fatire bites.

From her no harsh, unartful numbers fall,
She wears all dreffes, and fhe charms in all:
How might we fear our English poetry,
That long has flourish'd, fhould decay in thee;
Did not the mufes other hope appear,

Harmonious Congreve, and forbid our fear!

Congreve! whofe fancy's unexhausted store
Has given already much, and promis'd more.
Congreve fhall ill preserve thy fame alive,
And Dryden's muse fhall in his friend furvive.

On ALEXANDER'S FEAST: Or, The POWER of MUSICK. An ODE.

From Mr. POPE'S ESSAY on CRITICISM, 1. 376.

EAR how Timotheus' vary'd lays furprize,

While, at each change, the fon of Libyan Jove
Now burns with glory, and then melts with love;
Now his fierce eyes with sparkling fury glow,
Now fighs fteal out, and tears begin to flow.
Perfians and Greeks like turns of nature found,
And the world's victor stood fubdu'd by found,
The pow'r of Mufick all our hearts allow,
And what Timotheus was is Dryden now.

CHARACTER of DRYDEN.

From an ODE of GRA Y'S.

Ehold, where Dryden's lefs prefumptuous car,

Wide o'er the fields of glory bear:

Two courfers of ethereal race,

[pace.

Hark,

With necks in thunder cloath'd, and long-refounding

Hark, his hands the lyre explore!

Bright-ey'd Fancy hov'ring o'er,
Scatters from her pictur'd urn,

Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
But, ah! 'tis heard no more—

Oh! lyre divine, what daring fpirit
Wakes thee now? though he inherit
Nor the pride, nor ample pinion,
That the Theban eagle bear,
Sailing with fupreme dominion
Through the azure deep of air:

Yet oft before his infant eyes would run
Such forms, as glitter in the mufe's ray
With orient hues, unborrow'd of the fun:
Yet fhall he mount, and keep his diftant way
Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate

Beneath the good how far---but far above the great.

Upon

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