Hath too much mercy to fend men to hell,
For humble charity, and hoping well.
To what stupidity are zealots grown,
Whofe inhumanity, profufely shown
In damning crowds of fouls, may damn their own.
I'll err at least on the securer fide,
A convert free from malice and from pride.
To my Friend, Mr. JOHN DRYDEN, on his several excellent Tranflations of the ancient Poets.
By G. GRANVILLE, Lord LANSDOWNE.
S flow'rs, tranfplanted from a fouthern fky,
But hardly bear, or in the railing die;
Miffing their native fun, at best retain
But a faint odour, and survive 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 transfuse, the nimble spirit flies,
Escapes unfeen, evaporates, and dies.
Who then to copy Roman wit desire,
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 song,
So juft, fo fmooth, fo foft, and yet so strong,
Coeleftial 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 heaven their flight;
Deck'd in thy verse, as clad with rays they shine,
All glorified, immortal, and divine.
As Britain in rich foil abounding wide,
Furnish'd for use, for luxury, and pride,
Yet spreads her wanton fails on every shore
For foreign wealth, infatiate still 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, though an immortal name,
To lands remote fends forth his learned muse,
The nobleft feeds of foreign wit to choose :
Feafting our sense so many various ways,
Say, is't thy bounty, or thy thirst of praise?
That, by comparing others, all might see,
Who moft excel, are yet excell'd by thee.
To Mr. DRYDEN, by JOSEPH ADDISON, Efq.
HOW long, great poet, fhall thy facred lays
Provoke our wonder, and transcend our praise!
Can neither injuries of time, or age,
Damp thy poetic 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,
fecond youth is kindled in thy breast.
Thou mak'ft the beauties of the Romans known,
| And England boafts 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 ifle
In fimoother numbers, and a clearer style :
And Juyenal, instructed in thy page,
Edges his fatire, and improves his rage.
Thy copy cafts a fairer light on all,
And still outshines 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 first began to grow;
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 song :
Then may we wondering read, how human limbs
Have water'd kingdoms, and diffolv'd in streams,
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.
BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL,
FOR C. BATHURST, J. BUCKLAND, W. STRAHAN, J. RIVING-
TON AND SONS, T. DAVIES, T. PAYNE, L. DAVIS, W.OWEN,
B. WHITE, S. CROWDER, T. CASLON, T. LONGMAN,
B. LAW, E. AND C. DILLY, J. DODSLEY, H. BALDWIN,
J. WILKIE, J. ROBSON, J. JOHNSON, T. LOWNDES,
T. BECKET, G. ROBINSON, T.CADELL, W.DAVIS,
J. NICHOLS, F. NEWBERY, T. EVANS, J. RID-
LEY, R. BALDWIN, G. NICOL, LEIGH AND
SOTHEBY, J. BEW, N. CONANT,
J. MURRAY, W. FOX, J. BOWEN.
M DCC LXXIX.
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