Much better they could manage would they please;
'Tis not their want of wit, but love of cafe.
For, fpite of art, more wit in them appears,
Though we boaft ours, and they diffemble theirs;
Wit once was ours, and fhot up for a while,
Set fhallow in a hot and barren foil;
But when tranfplanted to a richer ground,
Has in their Eden its perfection found.
And 'tis but just they should our wit invade,
Whilft we fet up their painting patching trade;
As for our courage, to our shame 'tis known,
As they can raise it, they can pull it down.
At their own weapons they our bullies awe,
Faith let them make an anti-falick law;
Prefcribe to all Mankind, as well as plays,
And wear the breeches, as they wear the bays.

TO THE PEOPLE OF ENGLAND. A DETESTATION OF CIVIL WAR.

FROM HORACE, EPOD. VII.

OH! whither do ye rush, and thus prepare
To rouze again the fleeping war?
Has then fo little English blood been spilt
On fea and land with equal guilt?
Not that again we might oar arms advance,
To check the infolent pride of France;
Not that once more we might in fetters bring
An humble captive Gallic king?
But, to the wish of the infulting Gaul,

That we by our own hands thould fall.
Nor wolves nor lions bear fo fierce a mind;
They hurt not their own favage kind :
Is it blind rage, or zeal, more blind and ftrong,
Or guilt, yet stronger, drives you on?
Anfwer but none can anfwer; mute and pale
They ftand; guilt does o'er words prevail :
'Tis fo! heaven's justice threatens us from high;
And a king's death from earth does cry;
E'er fince the martyr's innocent blood was shed,
Upon our fathers, and on ours, and on our chil-

drens' head.

TO MR. CREECH.

ON HIS TRANSLATION OF LUCRETIUS.

WHAT to begin would have been madness thought, Exceeds our praise when to perfection brought; Who could believe Lucretius' lofty fong

Could have been reach'd by any modern tongue?
Of all the fuitors to immortal fame,

That by tranflations ftrove to raise a name,
This was the teft, this the Ulyffes' bow,
Too tough by any to be bent but you.
Carus himself of the hard task complains,
To fetter Grecian thoughts in Roman chains;
Much harder thine, in an unlearned tongue
To hold in bonds, fo eafy yet fo strong,
The Greek philofophy and Latin fong.

[due,

If then he boasts that round his facred head
Fresh garlands grow, and branching laurels fpread,
Such as not all the mighty Nine before
E'er gave, or any of their darlings wore ;
What laurels fhould be thine, what crowns thy
What garlands, mighty Poet, should be grac'd by
you!
[does flow,
Though deep, though wondrous deep, his fenfe
Thy fhining ftyle does all its riches fhew;
So clear the ftream, that through it we defcry
All the bright gems that at the bottom lic;
Here you the troublers of your peace remove,
Ignoble fear, and more ignoble love;

Here we are taught how firft our race begun,
And by what fteps our fathers climb'd to man;
To man as now he is-with knowledge fill'd,
In arts of peace and war, in manners skill'd,
Equal before to fellow-grazers of the field!
Nature's firft ftate, which, well tranfpos'd and
own'd

(For owners in all ages have been found).
Has made a modern wit fo much renown'd,
When thee we read, we find to be no more
Than what was fung a thousand years before.
Thou only for this noble task wert fit,
To fhame thy age to a just sense of wit,
By fhewing how the learned Romans writ.
To teach fat heavy clowns to know their trade,
And not turn wits who were for porters made;
But quit falfe claims to the poetic rage,
For fquibs and crackers, and a Smithfield stage.
Had Providence e'er meant that, in defpite
Of art and nature, fuch dull clods fhould write,
Bavius and Mævius had been fav'd by Fate
For Settle and for Shadwell to tranflate,
As it fo many ages has for thee
Preferv'd the mighty work that now we fee.

Luxuriant round, and see how wide they spread, And in the cave their purple clusters fhed!

MENALCAS.

Amyntas only dares contend with you.

MOPSUS.

Why not as well contend with Phœbus too?

MENALCAS.

Begin, begin; whether the mournful flame
Of dying Phyllis, whether Aleon's fame,
Or Cordrus' brawls, thy willing Muse provoke;
Begin; young Tityrus will tend the flock.

MOPSUS.

Yes, I'll begin, and the fad fong repeat, That on the beech's bark I lately writ, And set to sweetest notes; yes, I'll begin, And after that, bid you, Amyntas, fing.

MENALCAS.

As much as the most humble shrub that grows,
Yields to the beauteous blufhes of the rofe,
Or bending ofiers to the olive tree;
So much, I judge, Amyntas yields to thee.

MOPSUS.

Shepherd, to this discourse here put an end, This is the cave; fit, and my verfe attend.

MOFSUS.

When the fad fate of Daphnis reach'd their ears, The pitying nymphs diffolv'd in pious tears. Witnefs, ye hazels, for ye heard their cries; Witnefs, ye floods, fwoln with their weeping

eyes.

The mournful mother (on his body caft)
The fad remains of her cold fon embrac'd,
And of th' unequal tyranny they us'd,
The cruel gods and cruel ftars accus'd.

Then did no wain mind how his flock did thrive,
Nor thirsty herds to the cold river drive;
The generous horfe turn'd from fresh ftreams
his head,

And on the sweetest grafs refus'd to feed.
Daphnis, thy death ev'n fierceft lions mourn'd,
And hills and woods their cries and groans re-
turn'd.

Daphnis Armenian tigers' fierceness broke,
And brought them willing to the facred yoke:
Daphnis to Bacchus' worship did ordain
The revels of his confecrated train;
The reeling priests with vines and ivy crown'd,
And their long fpears with cluster'd branches

bound.

As vines the elm, as grapes the vine adorn,
As bulls the herd, as fields the ripen'd corn;
Such grace, fuch ornament, wert thou to all
That glory'd to be thine: fince thy fad fall
No more Apollo his glad prefence yields,
And Pales' felf forfakes her hated fields.
Oft where the finest barley we did sow,
Barren wild oats and hurtful darnel grow;
And where foft violets did the vales adorn,
The thistle rifes, and the prickly thorn.
Come, fhepherds, ftrow with flowers the hal-
low'd ground,

The facred fountains with thick boughs fur

round;

Daphnis thefe rites requires: to Daphnis praise, Shepherds, a tomb with this infcription raife

"Here fam'd from earth to heaven 1 Daphnis lie; "Fair was the flock I fed, but much more far "was 1."

MENALCAS.

Such, divine Poet, to my ravish'd ears

Are the sweet numbers of thy mournful verfe,
As to tir'd fwains foft flumbers on the grais;
As freshest springs that through green meadows
país,

To one that parch'd with thirst and fummer's heat.
In thee thy mafter does his equal meet:
Whether your voice you try, or tune your reed,
Bleft fwain, 'tis you alone can him fucceed!
Yet, as I can, I in return will fing:

I too thy Daphnis to the ftars will bring,
I too thy Daphnis to the stars, with you,
Will raife; for Daphnis lov'd Menalcas too.

A God! A God! Menalcas, he is crown'd!
O be propitious! O be good to thine!
See! here four hollow'd altars we design,
To Daphnis two, to Phœbus two we raife,
To pay the yearly tribute of our praise. :
Sacred to thee, they each returning year
Two bowls of milk and two of oil shall bear :
Feafts I'll ordain, and to thy deathless praise
Thy votaries' exalted thoughts to raise,
Rich Chian wines fhall in full goblets flow,
And give a tale of Nectar here below.
Damætus fhall with Liction Ægon join,
To celebrate with fongs the rites divine.
Alphifibus with a reeling gait

Shall the wild Satyrs' dancing imitate.
When to the nymphs we vows and offerings pay,
When we with folemn rites our fields furvey,
Thefe honours ever fhall be thine: the boar
Shall in the fields and hills delight no more;
No more in ftreams the fifh, in flowers the bee,
Ere, Daphnis, we forget our fongs to thee:
Offerings to thee the shepherds every year
Shall, as to Bacchus and to Ceres, bear :'
To thee, as to thofe Gods, fhall vows be made,
And vengeance wait on thofe by whom they are
not paid.

TO MR. WALLER,

Upen the Copy of Verfes made by himself on the laft Copy in bis Bock §.

VHEN fhame, for all my foolish youth had writ,7
dvis'd 'twas time the rhyming trade to quit,
'ime to grow wife, and be no more a wit-
The noble fire, that animates thy age,
Once more inflam'd me with poetic rage.
Kings, heroes, nymphs, the brave, the fair, the
young,

Have been the theme of thy immortal song :
A nobler argument at last thy Mufe,
Two things divine, Thee and Herself, does choose.
Age, whofe dull weight makes vulgar fpirits bend,
Gives wings to thine, and bids it upward tend:
No more confin'd, above the starry skies,
Out from the body's broken cage it flies.
But, oh vouchfafe, not wholly to retire,
To join with and complete th' etherial choir!
Still here remain; ftill on the threshold ftand;
Still at this diftance view the promis'd land;
Though thou may'ft feem, so heavenly is thy fenfe,
Not going thither, but new come from thence.

But, more enrag'd for being beat before,
With all his ftrength he does prepare
More fiercely to renew the war;
Nor ceas'd he till the noble prize he bore:
Ev'n her fuch wondrous courage did furprise;
She hugs the dart that wounded her, and dies.

A SONG.

1.

THROUGH mournful fhades, and solitary groves, Fann'd with the fighs of unsuccessful loves,

Wild with despair, young Thyrfis ftrays, Thinks over all Amyra's heavenly charms, Thinks he now fees her in another's arms;

Then at fome willow's root himself he lays, The loveliest, most unhappy swain; And thus to the wild woods he does complain :

TO MR. HENRY DICKINSON,

ON HIS TRANSLATION OF

Simon's Critical Hiftory of the Old Teftament.

WHAT fenfelefs loads have over-charg'd the prefs,
Of French impertinence, in English drefs!
How many dull tranflators every day
Bring new fupplies of novel, farce, or play!
Like damn'd French penfioners, with foreign aid
Their native land with nonfenfe to invade,
Till we're o'er-run more with the wit of France,
Her naufeous wit, than with her Proteftants.
But, Sir, this noble piece obligeth more
Than all their trash hath plagu'd the town before:
With various learning, knowledge, strength of
thought,

Order and art, and folid judgment fraught;
No lefs a piece than this could make amends
For all the trumpery France amongst us fends.
Nor let ill-grounded fuperftitious fear
Fright any but the fools from reading here.
The facred oracles may well endure

Th' exacteft fearch, of their own truth fecure;
Though at this piece fome noify zealots bawl,
And to their aid a numerous faction call
With ftretch'd-out arms, as if the ark could fall;
Yet wifer heads will think fo firm it stands,
That, were it fhook, 'twould need no mortal hands.

How nobly the the royal brothers draws;
How great their quarrel, and how great their

caufe!

How justly rais'd! and by what just degrees,
In a sweet calm does the rough tempeft cease!
Envy not now "the God-like Roman's rage;"
Hector and Troilus, darlings of our age,
Shall hand in hand with Brutus tread the stage.
Shakespeare, 'tis true, this tale of Troy firft-
told,

But, as with Ennius Virgil did of old,
You found it dirt, but you have made it gold.
A dark and undigested heap it lay,
Like Chaos ere the dawn of infant day,
But you did firft the cheerful light difplay..
Confus'd it was as Epicurus' world

Of Atoms, by blind Chance together hurl'd,
But you have made fuch order through it shine
As loudly fpeaks the workmanship divine.

Boaft then, O Troy! and triumph in thy flames, That make thee fung by three fuch mighty names. Had Ilium food, Homer had ne'er been read, Nor the sweet Mantuan fwan his wings difplay'd, Nor thou, the third, but equal in renown, Thy matchlefs fkill in this great fubject fhown, Not Priam's felf, nor all the Trojan ftate, Was worth the faving at so dear a rate. But they now flourish, by you mighty three, In verfe more lafting than their walls could be: Which never, never fhall like them decay, Being built by hands divine as well as they; Never till, our great Charles being fung by you, Old Troy fhall grow lefs famous than the New.

TO MR. DRYDEN,

ON HIS

TROILUS AND CRESSIDA, 1679.

[go,

AND will our Mafter Poet then admit A young beginner in the trade of wit, To bring a plain and ruftic Muse, to wait On his in all her glorious pomp and state? Can an unknown, unheard-of, private name, Add any luftre to fo bright a fame? No fooner planets to the fun may give That light which they themselves from him derive. Nor could my fickly fancy entertain A thought fo foolish, or a pride so vain. But, as when kings through crowds in triumphs The meanest wretch that gazes at the show, Though to that pomp his voice can add no more, Than when we drops into the ocean pour, Has leave his tongue in praises to employ (Th' accepted language of officious joy): So I in loud applaufes may reveal To you, great King of Verfe, my loyal zeal, May tell with what majestic grace and mien Your Mufe difplays herfelf in every scene; In what rich robes fhe has fair Creffid dreft, And with what gentle fires inflam'd her breaft. How when thofe fading eyes her aid implor'd, She all their sparkling luftre has restor'd, Added more charms, fresh beauties on them fhed, And to new youth recall'd the lovely maid.

PARIS TO HELEN. TRANSLATED FROM OVID'S EPISTLES.

The Argument.

Paris, having failed to Sparta for the obtaining of Helen, whom Venus had promifed him as the reward of his adjudging the Prize of Beauty to her, was nobly there entertained by Menelaus, Helen's husband; but he, being called away to Crete, to take poffeffion of what was left him by his grand-father Atreus, conmends his g. eft to the care of his wife. In his abfence Paris courts her, and writes to her the following epiftle.

ALL health, fair nymph, thy Paris fends to thee,
Though you, and only you, can give it me.
Shall I then speak? or is it needlefs grown
To tell a paffion that itfelf has fhown?
Dres not my love itself too open lay,
And all I think in all I do betray?
If not, oh may it ftill in fecret lie,
Till inte with our kind wishes fhall comply;
Till a' our joys may to us come fincere,
Nor Ife their price by the aliay of fear!
In vain 1 ftrive; who can that fire conceal,
Which does itfeif by its own light reveal?
B:, if you needs would hear my trembling tongue
Speak what my actions have declar'd fo long,