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Why should not we thefe pageantries defpife,
Whofe worth but in our want of reafon lies?
For life is all in wandering errors led ;
And just as children are furpriz'd with dread,
And tremble in the dark, fo riper years
Ev'n in broad day-light are poffefs'd with fears ;
And shake at fhadows fanciful and vain,
As those which in the breafts of children reign.
Thefe bugbears of the mind, this inward hell,
No rays of outward funfhine can difpers
But nature and right reafon must difplay

As thou, to whom the Mufe commends
The beft of poets and of friends,
Doft thy committed pledge reftore;
And land him fafely on the fhore;
And fave the better part of me,
From perithing with him at sea!
Sure he, who firft the paffage try'd,
In harden'd oak his heart did hide,
And ribs of iron arm'd his fide;
Or his at least, in hellow wood
Who tempted first the briny flood:

Their beams abroad, and bring the darksome foul to Nor fear'd the winds contending roar,

day.

FROM THE FIFTH BOOK OF

LUCRETIU S.

"Tum porrò puer, &c."

hurl'd

Nor billows beating on the fhore;
Nor Hyades portending rain;
Nor all the tyrants of the main.
What form of death could him affright,
Who unconcern'd, with stedfast fight,
Could view the furges mounting steep,
And monfters rolling in the deep!
Could through the ranks of ruin go,
With ftorms above, and rocks below!
In vain did nature's wife command
Divide the waters from the land,
If daring hips and men prophane
Invade th' inviolable main;

Th'

THUS, like a failor by a tempek d on the world: And renal fences over-ndle's deep

Naked he lies, and ready to expire;

Helpless of all that human wants require;
Expos'd upon unhofpitable earth,

From the first moment of his hapless birth.

Straight with foreboding cries he fills the room;
Too true prefages of his future doom.
But flocks and herds, and every favage beast,
By more indulgent nature are increas'd.
They want no rattles for their froward mood,
Nor nurfe to reconcile them to their food,
With broken words; nor winter blafts they fear,
Nor change their habits with the changing year:
Nor, for their fafety, citadels prepare,
Nor forge the wicked inftruments of war:
Unlabour'd earth her bounteous treasure grants,
And nature's lavish hand fupplies their common

wants.

THE

THIRD ODE OF THE FIRST BOOK

No toil, no hardship, can restrain
Ambitious man inur'd to pain;
The more confin'd, the more he tries,
And at forbidden quarry flies.
Thus bold Prometheus did afpire,
And ftole from Heaven the feeds of fire:
A train of ills, a ghaftly crew,
The robber's blazing track pursue:
Fierce famine with her meagre face,
And fevers of the fiery race,

In fwarms th' offending wretch furround,
All brooding on the blasted ground:
And limping death, lafh'd on by fate,
Comes up to fhorten half our date.
This made not Daedalus beware,
With borrow'd wings to fail in air:
To hell Alcides forc'd his way,

Plung'd through the lake, and fnatch'd the prey Nay fcarce the Gods, or heavenly climes,

Are fafe from our audacious crimes;

We reach at Jove's imperial crown,
And pull th' unwilling thunder down.

}

OF

THE

NINTH ODE OF THE FIRST BOOK

H, OR A CE.

Infcribed to the Earl of ROSCOMMON, on his intend ed Voyage to Ireland.

S And the twin fars the feed of Jove.

may th' aufpicious queen of love,

And he who rules the raging wind,
To thee, O facred ship, be kind;
And gentle breezes fill thy fails,
Supplying foft Etefian gales :

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Enjoy the prefent smiling hour;

And put it out of fortune's power:
The tide of bufinefs, like the running stream,
Is fometimes high, and sometimes low,
A quiet ebb, or a tempeftuous flow,

And always in extreme.

Now with a noiseless gentle courfe
It keeps within the middle bed :
Anon it lifts aloft the head,

And bears down all before it with impetuous force;
And trunks of trees come rolling down,

Sheep and their folds together drown: Both houfe and homefted into feas are borne; And rocks are from their own foundations torn, And woods, made thin with winds, their scatter'd honours mourn.

VIII.

Happy the man, and happy he alone,
He who can call to-day his own:
He who, fecure within, can fay,
To-morrow do thy worst, for I have liv'd to-
day;

Be fair, or foul, or rain, or thine,
The joys I have poffefs'd, in fpite of fate are mine.
Not Heaven itfelf upon the paft has power;
But what has been, has been, and I have had my

hour.

Fortune, that, with malicious joy,
Does man her flave oppress,
Proud of her office to destroy,

Is feldom pleas'd to blefs:
Still various and unconstant still,
But with an inclination to be ill,
Promotes, degrades, delights in ftrife,
And makes a lottery of life.

I can enjoy her while she's kind';
But when the dances in the wind,

And shakes the wings and will not stay,
I puff the profitute away;

The little or the much she gave, is quietly refign'd:
Content with poverty, my foul I arm;

And virtue, though in rags, will keep me warm!

X.

What is't to me,

Who never fail in her unfaithful fea,
If storms arife, and clouds grow black;
If the maft fplit, and threaten wreck?
Then let the greedy merchant fear

For his ill-gotten gain;

And pray to Gods that will not hear,
While the debating winds and billows bear

His wealth into the main.
For me, fecure from fortune's blows,
Secure of what I cannot lofe,
In my small pinnace I can fail,
Contemning all the blustering roar;'
And running with a merry gale,
With friendly ftars my fafety feek
Within fome little winding creek:
And fee the ftorm afhore.

THE SECOND EPODE OF HORACE,

TOW happy in his low degree,

is he,

Who leads a quiet country life;
Difcharg'd of bufinefs, void of ftrife,
And from the griping fcrivener free!
Thus, ere the feeds of vice were fown,
Liv'd men in better ages born,
Who plow'd with oxen of their own
Their small paternal field of corn,
Nor trumpets fummon him to war.

Nor drums difturb his morning fleep,
Nor knows the merchants' gainful care,
Nor fears the dangers of the deep.
The clamours of contentious law,
And court, and state, he wifely fhuns,
Nor, brib'd with hopes, nor dar'd with awe,
To fervile falutations runs ;

But either to the clasping vine

Does the fupporting poplar wed,
Or with his pruning-hook disjoin
Unbearing branches from their head,
And grafts more happy in their stead
Or, climbing to a hilly steep,

He views his herds in vales afar,
Or fheers the overburden'd sheep,
Or mead for cooling drink prepares,
Of virgin honey in the jars.

Or in the now-declining year,

When bounteous autumn rears his head, He joys to pull the ripen'd pear,

And clustering grapes with purple spread, The fairest of his fruit he ferves, Priapus, thy rewards: Sylvanus too his part defervės,

Whofe care the fences guards.
Sometimes beneath an ancient oak,
Or on the matted grafs, he lies;
No God of fleep he need invoke;

The ftream that o'er the pebbles flies
With gentle flumbers crowns his eyes.
The wind that whistles through the sprays
Maintains the concert of the fong;
And hidden birds with native lays

The golden fleep prolong.
But, when the blast of winter blows,
And hoary froft inverts the year,
Into the naked woods he goes,

And feeks the trufty boar to rear, With well-mouth'd hounds and pointed fpear f Or fpreads his fubtle nets from fight With twinkling glaffes, to betray The larks that in the meshes light,

Or makes the fearful hare his prey.
Amidft his harmless eafy joys

No anxious care invades his health,
Nor love his peace of mind deftroys,
Nor wicked avarice of wealth.
But if a chafte and pleating wife,
To eafe the bufinefs of his life,
Divides with him his houfhold care,
Such as the Sabine matrons were,
Such as the fwift Apulian's bride,
Sun-burnt and fwarthy though the be,"
Will fire for winter-nights provide,
And without noife will overfee
His children and his family;
And order all things till he come,
Sweaty and overlabour'd, home;
If the in pens his flocks will fold,

And then produce her dairy ftore,
With wine to drive away the cold,
And unbought dainties of the poor;
Not oyfters of the Lucrine lake

My fober appetite would wish," Nor turbot, or the foreign fish That rolling tempefts overtake,'

And hither waft the coftly diff. Not heathpout, or the rarer bird,

Which Phafis or Ionia yields,
More pleafing morfels would afford

Than the fat olives of my fields;
Than fhards or mallows for the pot,
That keeps the loofen'd body found,
Or than the lamb, that falls by lot
To the juft guardian of my ground.

Amidft these feafts of happy fwains,
The jolly fhepherd smiles to fee
His flocks returning from the plains;
The farmer is as pleas'd as he,
To view his oxen sweating smoke,
Bear on their necks the loofen'd yoke:
To look upon his menial crew,

That fit around his chearful hearth,
And bodies spent in toil renew

With wholesome food and country mirth.
This Morecraft faid within himself,
Refolv'd to leave the wicked town:

And live retir'd upon his own,

He call'd his money in ;

But the prevailing love of pelf Soon fplit him on the former fhelf, He put it out again,

TO MR. DRYDEN,

ON HIS

EXCELLENT TRANSLATION OF VIRGIL.

"HENE'ER great Virgil's lofty verfe I see,

eye:

There different beauties in perfection meet;
The thoughts as proper, as the numbers sweet:
And when wild Fancy mounts a daring height,
Judgment fteps in, and moderates her flight.
Wifely he manages his wealthy store,
Still fays enough, and yet implies still more:
For though the weighty fenfe be closely wrought,
The reader's left t'improve the pleafing thought.
Hence we despair to see an English dress
Should e'er his nervous energy exprefs;
For who could that in fetter'd rhyme inclofe,
Which without loss can scarce be told in profe!
But you, great Sir, his manly genius raise;
And make your copy fhare an equal praife.
Oh how I fee thee in foft fcenes of love,
Renew thofe paffions he alone could move!
Here Cupid's charms are with new art expreft,
And pale Eliza leaves her peaceful rest:
Leaves her Elyfium, as if glad to live,

To love, and wifh, to figh, despair, and grieve,
And die again for him that would again deceive.
Nor does the mighty Trojan lefs appear
Than Mars himself amidst the storms of war,
Now his fierce eyes with double.fury glow,
And a new dread attends th' impending blow:
The Daunian chiefs their cager rage abate,
And, though unwounded, feem to feel their fate.

Long the rude fury of an ignorant age,
With barbarous fpite, prophan'd his facred page.
The heavy Dutchmen, with laborious toil,
Wrefted his fenfe, and cramp'd his vigorous ftyle;
No time, no pains, the drudging pedants spare;
But ftill his fhoulders must the burden bear.
While through the mazes of their comments led,
We learn not what he writes, but what they read.
Yet, through rhese shades of undistinguish'd night
Appear'd fome glimmering intervals of light;

Till mangled by a vile tianflating sect,
Like babes by witches in effigy rackt;
Till Ogleby, mature in dulness, rofe,
And Holborn doggrel, and low chiming profe,
His ftrength and beauty did at once depofe.
But now the magic fpell is at an end,
Since ev'n the dead in you hath found a friend;
You free the Bard from rude oppreffors' power,
And grace his verfe with charms unknown before
He, doubly thus oblig'd, must doubting stand,
Which chiefly fhould his gratitude command;
Whether fhould claim the tribute of his heart,
The Patron's bounty, or the Poet's art.

Alike with wonder and delight we view'd
The Roman genius in thy verse renew'd :
We faw thee raise foft Ovid's amorous fire,
And fit the tuneful Horace to thy lyre:
We faw new gall imbitter Juvenal's pen,
And crabbed Perfeus made politely plain:
Virgil alone was thought too great a task;
What you could fcarce perform, or we durst ask ;
A tafk! which Waller's Mufe could ne'er engage;
A tafk! too hard for Denham's stronger rage:
Sure of fuccefs they fome flight fallies try'd,
But the fenc'd coaft their bold attempts defy'd.
With fear their o'er-match'd forces back they
drew,

Quitted the province Fate referv'd for you.
In vain thus Philip did the Perfians storm;

A Work his de tie transform

"O had Rofcommon liv'd to hail the day, "And fing loud Pæans through the crowded way; "When you in Roman majesty appear, "Which none know better, and none come fo

near:"

The happy author would with wonder see,
His rules were only prophecies of thee:
And were he now to give translators light,
He'd bid them only read thy work, and write.

For this great talk our loud applause is due;
We own old favours, but muft prefs for new:
Th' expecting world demands one labour more ;
And thy lov'd Homer does thy aid implore,
To right his injur'd works, and set them free
From the lewd rhymes of groveling Ogleby.
Then fhall his verfe in grateful pomp appear,
Nor will his birth renew the ancient jar;
On thofe Greek cities we shall look with fcorn,
And in our Britain think the Poet born.

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11. O could I find it now ;-Would Virgil's fhade But for a while vouchsafe to bear the light;

To grace my numbers, and that Mufe to aid, Who fings the Poet that has done him right.

III.

It long has been this facred Author's fate, To lie at every dull Tranflator's will;

Long, long his Mufe has groan'd beneath

weight

Of mangling Ogleby's presumptuous quill.

IV.

Dryden, at laft, in his defence arofe; The father now is righted by the fon :

And while his Mufe endeavours to disclose That Poet's beauties, the declares her own.

V.

In your smooth, pompous numbers dreft, line,

Each thought, betrays fuch a majestic touch; He could not, had he finish'd his defign, Have wifh'd it better, or have done fo much.

VI.

You, like his Hero, though yourself were free; And difentangled from the war of wit;

You, who fecure might other dangers fee, And fafe from all malicious cenfures fit.

VII.

Yet because facred Virgil's noble Muse, O'erlay'd by fools, was ready to expire:

To risk your fame again, you boldly chufe, Or to redeem, or perish with your fire.

VIII.

Nature could never fuch expence afford;
Each feveral province own'd a several lord.
A Poet then had his poetic wife,

One Mufe embrac`d, and married for his life.
By the itale thing his appetite was cloy'd,
His fancy leffen'd, and his fire destroy'd.
But nature grown extravagantly kind,
With all her treasures did adorn your mind.
The different powers were then united found,
the And you Wit's universal monarch crown'd.
Your mighty fway your great defert secures,
And every Muse and every Grace is yours,
To none confin'd, by turns you all enjoy,
Sated with this, you to another fly.

each

Ev'n first and last, we owe him half to you, For that his Æneids mifs'd their threaten'd fate, Was-that his friends by fome prediction knew, Hereafter, who correcting should translate.

IX:

But hold, my Mufe, thy needlefs flight reftrain, Unlefs, like him, thou couldst a verfe indite : To think his fancy to describe is vain, Since nothing can discover light, but light.

X.

'Tis want of genius that does more deny : 'Tis fear my praife should make your glory_lefs. And therefore, like the modeft Painter, I Muft draw the veil, where I cannot express.

TO

HENRY GRAHME.

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M R.

DRYDEN.

No wit;

undisputed Monarch govern'd yet

VIRGIL.

IS faid that Phidias gave fuch living gracę
To the carv'd image of a beauteous face,
That the cold marble might even feem to be
The life; and the true life, the imagery.

You pafs'd that artist, Sir, and all his powers,
Making the best of Roman Poets ours;
With fuch effect, we know not which to call
The imitation, which th' original.

What Virgil lent, you pay in equal weight,
The charming beauty of the coin no lefs;
And fuch the majesty of your impress,
You feem the very author you translate.

'Tis certain, were he now alive with us,
And did revolving destiny constrain,
To drefs his thoughts in English o'er again,
Himfelf could write no otherwife than thus.

His old encomium never did appear

So true as now; Romans and Greeks, fubmit. Something of late is in our language writ, More nobly great than the fam'd Iliads were.

A. WRIGHT.

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