The Works of Mr. Henry Needler

Ere any Writer, of a later Date,
The Matchless Pieces ventur'd to Translate.
The drudging Pedants, that at first arose,
Constru'd the Ancients into chiming Prose;
Guiltless of Genius and Poetick Heat,
Founder'd in Verse and crept with hobbling Feet;
A faint Resemblance heavily design'd,
But all the Life and Beauty left behind.

He, that an Author can interpret well,
Must in his Breast th' infectious Rapture feel;
His Fancy warm'd with the same heav'nly Fire,
That did his great Original inspire.

These needful Talents were in Dryden found,
Dryden! with ever-living Laurels crown'd;
In his Translation, like Himself appears
The Mantuan Bard, unhurt by rowling Years;
Still in their native Charms his Numbers shine,
Harmonious still, Majestick and Divine!
When Dryden's Strains employ our ravish'd Ear,
We seem the Language of the Gods to hear!

Such Musick warbles in his tuneful Song,
So sweet his Verse, so delicate and strong!

With rival Art, my Much-lov'd Friend, You tread
In the bright Footsteps of th' Illustrious Dead.
If Claudian in the British Tongue had wrote,
He cou'd not better have express'd his Thought,
Nor in more happy Diction have display'd
Th' Infernal Rape of the Celestial Maid.
Thus finely told, the well-wrought Fable charms
Each list'ning Ear, and ev'ry Fancy warms.
A thousand Beauteous Images arise,
And fill the Soul with ever-new Surprize.

Now rais'd aloft to Ætna's flaming Crown,
We look on the contiguous Valleys down;
The pleasing Scene a lovely Prospect yields
Of blooming Meadows and enamell'd Fields.
Here Proserpine, amid the Nymphly Train,
Moves with superior Grace upon the Plain;
Thoughtless of Venus and her crafty Wiles,
Gaily She trips along, and Innocently smiles.

Now to the Regions of the silent Dead,
And grizly Pluto's darksom Realms convey'd,
Astonish'd we survey the dreary Coasts
Of empty Shadows and of gliding Ghosts;
Where Phlegethon his fi'ry Torrent rowls,
And with a tripple Yell fierce Gerb'rus howls.

Erictho's hellish Charms and Magick Skill
Our Fancies next with trembling Horror fill.
The just Description of a Form so foul
Startles our Thoughts, and shocks our inmost Soul.
Amaz'd we listen, while the Poet tells
The mighty Force of Herbs and mutter'd Spells;
How from her Orb they make the Moon descend,
And in Mid-Heav'n th' enchanted Sun suspend;
Cause sudden Storms and Whirlwinds to arise,
And bid the Thunder roar, along the cloudless Skies.

We Here behold, how well the British Tongue
Suits with the lofty Style of Epick Song.
Perhaps no living Language can be found,
Where so much Force and Harmony abound.

In vain the French their feeble Voice wou'd raise
To Nervous Numbers and Majestick Lays:
From France we have a double Laurel won,
By Us in Writing, as in Arms outdone:
Brom Britain's Isle the greatest Heroes spring;
Heroick Acts the Britons best can sing:
None but an Addison's Immortal Strain
Can worthily record a Marlborough's Campaign.

University of Virginia Library

To Mr. Jabez Hughes, On his Translation of Claudian's Rape of Proserpine, and the Episode of Sextus and Erictho from Lucan's Pharsalia.

Written in the Year 1714.