As his reading had been very extenfive, fo was he very happy in a memory tenacious of every thing, that he had read. He was not more poffefs'd of knowledge, than he was communicative of it: but then his communication of it was by no means pedantic, or impos'd upon the converfation, but just fuch, and went fo far, as, by the natural turns of the difcourfe, in which he was engag'd, it was neceffarily promoted or requir'd. He was extremely ready and gentle in his correction of the errors of any Writer, who thought fit to confult him; and full as ready and patient to admit of the reprehenfion of others, in respect of his own overfights or mistakes. He was of very easy, and indeed pleafing accefs; but fomething flow, and, as it were, diffident in his advances o others. He had fomething in his nature, that abhorr'd intrusion into any fociety whatever; and eafily discountenanc'd in his approaches either to his fuperior or his equals. His parts did not decline with his years; but he was an improving Writer to the laft, even to near feventy years; improving in fire and imagination, as well as in judgment. He was equally excellent in Verse and in Profe; and his excellence in the latter he us❜d to ascribe to his having often read Archbishop Tillotfon's Works. His Verfification and his Numbers he could learn of no body; for he first poffefs'd those talents in perfection in our Tongue. And it may be faid in general of his Writings, that what he did in any one species, or distinct kind, would have been fufficient to have acquir'd him a great name.

VERSES

B

By the Earl of ROSCOMMON.

E gone, you slaves, you idle vermin go,
Fly from the fcourges, and your mafter know;

Let free, impartial, men from Dryden learn
Myfterious fecrets, of a high concern,
And weighty truths, folid convincing fer fe,
Explain'd by unaffected eloquence.

What can you (Reverend Levi) here také ill ?
Men ftill had faults, and men will have them ftill;
He that hath none, and lives as angels do,
Must be an angel; but what's that to you?
While mighty Lewis finds the pope too great,
And dreads the yoke of his impofing feat,
Our fects a more tyrannick pow'r affume,
And would for fcorpions change the rods of Rome;
That church detain'd the legacy divine;
Fanaticks caft the pearls of heav'n to fwine:
What then have thinking honeft men to do,
But chufe a mean between th' ufurping two?
Nor can th' Ægyptian patriarch blame thy mufe,
Which for his firmnefs does his heat excufe;

Whatever

Whatever councils have approv'd his creed,
The preface fure was his own act and deed.
Our church will have that preface read you'll fay:
'Tis true but fo the will th' Apocrypha;
And fuch as can believe them, freely may.
But did that God (fo little understood)
Whofe darling attribute is being good,
From the dark womb of the rude chaos bring
Such various creatures and make man their King,
Yet leave his favourite man, his chiefest care,
More wretched than the vileft infects are ?

O! how much happier and more fafe are they?
If helpless millions must be doom'd a prey
To yelling furies, and for ever burn
In that fad place from whence is no return,
For unbelief in one they never knew,
Or for not doing what they could not do!
The very fiends know for what crime they fell,
And fo do all their followers that rebel:
If then a blind, well-meaning, Indian ftray,
Shall the great gulph be fhew'd him for the way? -
For better ends our kind Redeemer dy'd,
Or the faln angels room will be but ill fupply'd.
That Chrift, who at the great deciding day,
(For he declares what he refolves to fay)
Will dam the goats for their ill-natur'd faults,
And fave the sheep for actions, not for thoughts,
Hath too much mercy to fend men to hell,
For humble charity, and hoping well.

To what stupidity are zealots grown,
Whofe inhumanity, profufely fhown

In damning crouds of fouls, may damn their own.
I'll err at least on the fecurer fide,

A convert free from malice and from pride,

}

}

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

By G. GRANVILLE, Lord LANSDOWNE.

S flow'rs, tranfplanted from a fouthern sky,
But hardly bear, or in the raifing die;
Miffing their native fun, at beit 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 fpirit flies,
Escapes unfeen, evaporates, and dies.
Who then to copy Roman wit defire,
Muft imitate with Roman force and fire,
In elegance of ftyle and phrafe the fame,
And in the sparkling genius, and the flame.
Whence we conclude from thy tranflated fong,
So juft, so smooth, so soft, and yet so strong,
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 fhine,
All glorified, immortal, and divine.
As Britain in rich foil abounding wide,
Furnish'd for ufe, for luxury, and pride,
Yet spreads her wanton fails on ev'ry shore
For foreign wealth, infatiate ftill of more;
To her own wool the filks of Afia joins,
And to her plenteous harvests India's mines;
So Dryden, not contented with the fame
Of his own works, tho' an immortal name,

}

To

To lands remote fends forth his learned mufe,
The nobleft feeds of foreign wit to choose;
Feafting our fenfe fo many various ways,
Say, is't thy bounty, or thy thirst 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;

ITOW long, great poet, fhall thy facred lays

Hi

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 breaft.
Thou mak'ft the beauties of the Romans known,
And England boafts of riches not her own :
Thy lines have heighten'd Virgil's majefty,
And Horace wonders at himfelf in thee.
Thou teacheft Perfius to inform our ifle
In fmoother numbers, and a clearer ftyle:
And Juvenal, inftructed in thy page,
Edges his fatire, and improves his rage.
Thy copy cats a fairer light on ail,
And ftill 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 fhow
How thy own laurel firft began to grow;

How

{

!