than All for Love, or the Spanish Friar, these would have been fufficient to secure him an elevated place among dramatic writers.

In profe he was equally excellent, his words were always happily chofen, his periods round and flowing, his meaning clear, his arguments fupported with masterly elocution, and his conclufions well deduced. In his prefaces, indeed, we find him fometimes a deferter, and oppofing his own arguments in a manner to which Dryden only was equal; he has appeared unanfwerable till he answered himself. Here he confeffes that he was much obliged to archbishop Tillotfon, who was, he fays, the original from whom he copied. Impartiality will allow then that he often outgoes his mafter, and that none of our writers excel him.

His profe never deviates into blank verfe; and disjoint his verse as as you will, it is impoffible to reduce it to prose. "Its effence, (fays Congreve, in the dedication of his dramatic works to his grace the Duke of Newcastle) "like that "of pure gold cannot be deftroyed." And Garth, in his preface to the Metamorphofes, juftly remarks, that when he steals from others" (for he has been accused of plagiarism) "it is no otherwise than like "those who steal beggars children only to cloath "them the better."

In a word, his fancy was always vigorous, his imagination fertile, his fentiments are fpirited, his language is elegant, and his verfification fmooth and graceful; he was copious in invention; in tranflation he gives the fpirit of his author. To the last he maintained all his excellencies, and loft nothing of his ftrength. Mr. Pope beautifully obferves, "That his fire like the fun's fhone clearest towards "its fetting" nay, the fame great poet affures us, "He never would have attempted to tranflate Homer "had Dryden completed that work.'

In PRAISE of

Mr. DR Y DE N.

On Mr. DRYDEN'S RELIGIO LAICI.

By the Earl of RoscoMMON.

E gone, you flaves, you idle vermin go,

BE

Fly from the fcourges, and your mafter know;
Let free, impartial, men from Dryden learn
Mysterious fecrets, of a high concern,
And weighty truths, folid convincing sense,
Explain'd by unaffected eloquence.

What can you (Reverend Levi) here take 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 find the pope too great,
And dreads the yoke of his impofing feat,
Our fects a more tyrannic pow'r affume,

And would for fcorpions change the rods of Rome
That church detain'd the legacy divine;
Fanatics 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 councils have approv'd his creed,
The preface fure was his own act and deed.
Our church will have that preface read you'll say:
'Tis true but so she 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 chiefeft 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 stray,
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 supply'd.
That Chrift, who at the great deciding day,
'For he declares what he resolves to say)

}

Will damn the goats for their ill-natur❜d faults,
And fave the fheep 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,
Whose inhumanity, profufely fhown

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

A convert free from malice and from pride.

}

*XX

To my

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

By G. GRANVILLE, Lord LANSDOWNE.

A

S flow'rs, transplanted from a southern sky,
But hardly bear, or in the raifing die;
Miffling their native fun, at best 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 senseless 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 song,
So juft, fofmooth, so soft, and yet so strong,
Cœleftial poet! foul of harmony!

That ev'ry 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 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 fpreads 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 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.

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