Hath too much mercy to send men to hell,
For humble charity, and hoping well.
To what ftupidity are zealots grown,
Whofe inhumanity, profufely fhown

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 feveral excellent Tranflations of the ancient Poets.

By G. GRANVILLE, Lord LANSDOWNE.

As flow'rs, tranfplanted from a southern 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 fenfeless draught.
While we transfuse, the nimble spirit flies,
Efcapes 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 same,
And in the sparkling genius, and the flame.
Whence we conclude from thy tranflated song,
So juft, fo smooth, so soft, 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 verfe, 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, insatiate still of more;
To her own wool the filks of Asia 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 fee,
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's Penfive and fad, his drooping muse betrays

The Roman genius in its last decays.

Prevailing warmth has ftill thy mind possest, Ani 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 isle In fimoother numbers, and a clearer style : And Juvenal, 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 sickness interrupt thy song :
Then may we wondering 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.

B 3

From

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! whose tuneful muse affords The sweetest numbers and the fittest words. Whether in comic founds, or tragic airs,

She forms her voice, fhe moves our fmiles and tears. If fatire or heroic 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 ! whose fancy's unexhausted store
Has given already much, and promis'd more.
Congreve shall still preserve thy fame alive,
And Dryden's mufe fhall in his friend furvive.

On

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

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

HEAR how Timotheus' vary'd lays furprize,

And bid alternate passions fall and rise!

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 ftood fubdued by found.
The
of Mufick all our hearts allow,
power
And what Timotheus was is Dryden now.

CHARACTER of DRYDEN,

From an ODE of GRAY'S.

Ehold, where Dryden's less presumptuous car,
Wide o'er the fields of glory bear :

Two courfers of ethereal race,

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

Hark, his hands the lyre explore!

Bright-ey'd Fancy hovering o'er,

Scatters from her pictur'd urn,

Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.

But, ah! 'tis heard no more