Vida's Art of Poetry Translated into English Verse, By the Reverend Mr. Christoph. Pitt |
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| I. |
| II. |
Book II. |
| III. |
 | Vida's Art of Poetry |  |
39
Book II.
Proceed, ye nine, descended from above,
Ye tuneful daughters of allmighty Jove;
To teach the future age I hasten on,
And open every source of Helicon.
Your priest and bard with rage divine inspire,
While to your shrine I lead the blooming choir.
Hard was the way, and dubious, which we trod,
Now show, ye goddesses, a surer road;
Point out those paths, which you can find alone,
To all the world, but to your selves unknown;
Lo! all the Hesperian youths with me implore
Your softer influence, and propitious pow'r,
Who, rang'd beneath my banners, boldly tread
Those arduous tracks to reach your mountain's head;
New rules 'tis now my province to impart;
First to invent, and then dispose with art;
Each a laborious task: but they who share
Heav'ns kinder bounty, and peculiar care;
A glorious train of images may find,
Preventing hope, and crowding on the mind.
The other task to settle every part,
Depends on judgment, and the pow'rs of art;
From whence in chief the poet hopes to raise
His future glory, and immortal praise.
Ye tuneful daughters of allmighty Jove;
To teach the future age I hasten on,
And open every source of Helicon.
Your priest and bard with rage divine inspire,
While to your shrine I lead the blooming choir.
40
Now show, ye goddesses, a surer road;
Point out those paths, which you can find alone,
To all the world, but to your selves unknown;
Lo! all the Hesperian youths with me implore
Your softer influence, and propitious pow'r,
Who, rang'd beneath my banners, boldly tread
Those arduous tracks to reach your mountain's head;
New rules 'tis now my province to impart;
First to invent, and then dispose with art;
Each a laborious task: but they who share
Heav'ns kinder bounty, and peculiar care;
A glorious train of images may find,
Preventing hope, and crowding on the mind.
The other task to settle every part,
Depends on judgment, and the pow'rs of art;
From whence in chief the poet hopes to raise
His future glory, and immortal praise.
This, as a rule the noblest bards esteem,
To touch at first in gen'ral on the theme;
To hint at all the subject in a line;
And draw in miniature the whole design.
Nor in themselves confide; but next implore
The timely aid of some celestial pow'r;
To guide your labours, and point out your road;
Choose, as you please, your tutelary god;
But still invoke some guardian deity,
Some pow'r, to look auspicious from the sky;
To nothing great should mortals bend their care,
'Till Jove be solemnly addrest in pray'r.
'Tis not enough to call for aid divine,
And court but once the favour of the nine;
When objects rise, that mock your toil, and pain,
Above the labour and the reach of man;
Then you may supplicate the blest abodes,
And ask the friendly succour of the gods.
Shock not your reader, nor begin too fierce,
Nor swell and bluster in a pomp of verse;
At first all needless ornament remove,
To shun his prejudice, and win his love.
When you set out, you meet with most success,
In plain expression, and a modest dress.
For if too arrogant you vaunt your might,
You fall with greater scandal in the fight,
When on the nicest point your fortune stands,
And all your courage, all your strength demands.
With gradual flights surprize us as we read;
And let more glorious images succeed,
To wake our souls; to kindle our desire
Still to read on, and fan the rising fire.
But ne'er the subject of your work proclaim
In its own colours, and its genuine name;
Let it by distant tokens be convey'd
And wrapt in other words, and cover'd in their shade.
At last the subject from the friendly shrowd
Bursts out, and shines the brightest from the cloud;
Then the dissolving darkness breaks away,
And every object glares in open day.
And hence Ulysses' toils were I to choose,
For the main theme that should employ my muse;
By his long labours of immortal fame,
I'd paint my heroe, but conceal his name;
As one, who lost at sea, had nations seen,
And mark'd their towns, their manners, and their men,
Since Troy was level'd to the dust by Greece;
'Till a few lines epitomiz'd the piece.
To touch at first in gen'ral on the theme;
41
And draw in miniature the whole design.
Nor in themselves confide; but next implore
The timely aid of some celestial pow'r;
To guide your labours, and point out your road;
Choose, as you please, your tutelary god;
But still invoke some guardian deity,
Some pow'r, to look auspicious from the sky;
To nothing great should mortals bend their care,
'Till Jove be solemnly addrest in pray'r.
'Tis not enough to call for aid divine,
And court but once the favour of the nine;
When objects rise, that mock your toil, and pain,
Above the labour and the reach of man;
Then you may supplicate the blest abodes,
And ask the friendly succour of the gods.
Shock not your reader, nor begin too fierce,
Nor swell and bluster in a pomp of verse;
At first all needless ornament remove,
To shun his prejudice, and win his love.
When you set out, you meet with most success,
In plain expression, and a modest dress.
42
You fall with greater scandal in the fight,
When on the nicest point your fortune stands,
And all your courage, all your strength demands.
With gradual flights surprize us as we read;
And let more glorious images succeed,
To wake our souls; to kindle our desire
Still to read on, and fan the rising fire.
But ne'er the subject of your work proclaim
In its own colours, and its genuine name;
Let it by distant tokens be convey'd
And wrapt in other words, and cover'd in their shade.
At last the subject from the friendly shrowd
Bursts out, and shines the brightest from the cloud;
Then the dissolving darkness breaks away,
And every object glares in open day.
And hence Ulysses' toils were I to choose,
For the main theme that should employ my muse;
By his long labours of immortal fame,
I'd paint my heroe, but conceal his name;
43
And mark'd their towns, their manners, and their men,
Since Troy was level'd to the dust by Greece;
'Till a few lines epitomiz'd the piece.
But study now what order to maintain,
To link the work in one continu'd chain,
That when the muse unravels all her scheme,
And at the proper time unfolds the theme;
Each part may find its own determin'd place,
Laid out with method, and dispos'd with grace;
That to the destin'd scope the piece may tend,
And keep one constant tenor to the end.
First to surprizing novelties inclin'd,
The bards some unexpected objects find,
To wake attention, and suspend the mind.
A cold dull order bravely they forsake;
Fixt and resolv'd the winding way to take,
They nobly deviate from the beaten track.
The poet marks th' occasion, as he sings,
To launch out boldly from the midst of things,
Where some distinguisht incident he views,
Some shining action that deserves a muse.
Thence by degrees the wond'ring reader brings
To trace the subject backward to its springs,
Lest at his ent'rance he should idly stay,
Shock'd at his toil, and dubious of his way;
For when set down so near the promis'd goal,
The flatt'ring prospect tempts and fires his soul;
Already past the treach'rous bounds appear,
Then most at distance, when they seem so near;
Far from his grasp the fleeting haven flies,
Courts his pursuit, but mocks his dazled eyes;
The promis'd land which he with joy had spy'd,
Vast tracts of oceans from his reach divide;
Still must he backward steer his lengthen'd way,
And plough a wide interminable sea.
No skilful poet would his muse employ,
From Paris' vote to trace the fall of Troy,
Nor ev'ry deed of Hector to relate,
While his strong arm suspended Ilium's fate;
Work! for some annalists, some heavy fool,
Correctly dry, and regularly dull.
Best near the end those dreadful scenes appear;
Wake then, and rouze the furies of the war.
But for his ravisht fair at first engage,
Peleides' soul in unrelenting rage.
Be this the cause that every Phrygian flood
Swells with red waves, and rolls a tide of blood;
That Xanthus' urns a purple deluge pour,
And the deep trenches float with human gore.
Nor former deeds in silence must we lose,
The league at Aulis, and the mutual vows,
The Spartan raging for his ravisht spouse;
The thousand ships; the woes which Ilion bore
From Greece, for nine revolving years before.
This rule with judgment should the bard maintain,
Who brings Laertes' wand'ring son again,
From burning Ilion to his native reign.
Let him not launch from Ida's strand his ships,
With his attendant friends into the deeps;
Nor stay to vanquish the Ciconian hoast;
But set him down, (his dear companions lost,)
With fair Calypso on the Ogygian coast.
From thence, a world of toils and dangers past,
Waft him to rich Phæacia's realms at last,
There at the Feast his wand'rings to relate,
His friends dire change; his own relentless fate.
But if the bard of former actions sings,
He wisely draws from those remoter springs,
The present order, and the course of things.
To link the work in one continu'd chain,
That when the muse unravels all her scheme,
And at the proper time unfolds the theme;
Each part may find its own determin'd place,
Laid out with method, and dispos'd with grace;
That to the destin'd scope the piece may tend,
And keep one constant tenor to the end.
First to surprizing novelties inclin'd,
The bards some unexpected objects find,
To wake attention, and suspend the mind.
A cold dull order bravely they forsake;
Fixt and resolv'd the winding way to take,
They nobly deviate from the beaten track.
The poet marks th' occasion, as he sings,
To launch out boldly from the midst of things,
44
Some shining action that deserves a muse.
Thence by degrees the wond'ring reader brings
To trace the subject backward to its springs,
Lest at his ent'rance he should idly stay,
Shock'd at his toil, and dubious of his way;
For when set down so near the promis'd goal,
The flatt'ring prospect tempts and fires his soul;
Already past the treach'rous bounds appear,
Then most at distance, when they seem so near;
Far from his grasp the fleeting haven flies,
Courts his pursuit, but mocks his dazled eyes;
The promis'd land which he with joy had spy'd,
Vast tracts of oceans from his reach divide;
Still must he backward steer his lengthen'd way,
And plough a wide interminable sea.
No skilful poet would his muse employ,
From Paris' vote to trace the fall of Troy,
Nor ev'ry deed of Hector to relate,
While his strong arm suspended Ilium's fate;
Work! for some annalists, some heavy fool,
Correctly dry, and regularly dull.
45
Wake then, and rouze the furies of the war.
But for his ravisht fair at first engage,
Peleides' soul in unrelenting rage.
Be this the cause that every Phrygian flood
Swells with red waves, and rolls a tide of blood;
That Xanthus' urns a purple deluge pour,
And the deep trenches float with human gore.
Nor former deeds in silence must we lose,
The league at Aulis, and the mutual vows,
The Spartan raging for his ravisht spouse;
The thousand ships; the woes which Ilion bore
From Greece, for nine revolving years before.
This rule with judgment should the bard maintain,
Who brings Laertes' wand'ring son again,
From burning Ilion to his native reign.
Let him not launch from Ida's strand his ships,
With his attendant friends into the deeps;
Nor stay to vanquish the Ciconian hoast;
But set him down, (his dear companions lost,)
With fair Calypso on the Ogygian coast.
46
Waft him to rich Phæacia's realms at last,
There at the Feast his wand'rings to relate,
His friends dire change; his own relentless fate.
But if the bard of former actions sings,
He wisely draws from those remoter springs,
The present order, and the course of things.
As yet unfold th' event on no pretence,
'Tis your chief task to keep us in suspense.
Nor tell what presents Atreus' son prepares,
To reconcile Achilles to the Wars;
Or by what God's auspicious conduct led,
From Polyphemus' den Ulysses fled.
Pleas'd with the toil, and on the prospect bent
Our souls leap forward to the wisht event.
No call of nature can our search restrain,
And sleep, and thirst, and hunger plead in vain.
Glad we pursue the labour we embrac'd,
And leave reluctant, when we leave at last.
See! how the bard, triumphant in his art,
Sports with our passions, and commands the heart;
Now here, now there he turns the varying song,
And draws at will the captive soul along;
Fixt on the dark event, in ev'ry sense
We feel the pleasing anguish of suspense.
When Homer once has promis'd to rehearse
Bold Paris' fight, in many a sounding verse,
He soon perceives his readers warm desire
Wrapt in th' event, and all his soul on fire;
Then he with art contrives some specious stay,
Before he tells the fortune of the day.
'Till Helen to the king and elders show,
From some tall tow'r, the leaders of the foe,
And name the heroes in the fields below.
When chast Penelope, to gain her end,
Invites her suitors the tough bow to bend;
(Her nuptial bed the victor's promis'd prize)
With what address her various arts she plies?
Skill'd in delays, and politickly slow
To search her treasures for her heroe's bow?
'Tis your chief task to keep us in suspense.
Nor tell what presents Atreus' son prepares,
To reconcile Achilles to the Wars;
Or by what God's auspicious conduct led,
From Polyphemus' den Ulysses fled.
Pleas'd with the toil, and on the prospect bent
Our souls leap forward to the wisht event.
No call of nature can our search restrain,
And sleep, and thirst, and hunger plead in vain.
Glad we pursue the labour we embrac'd,
And leave reluctant, when we leave at last.
See! how the bard, triumphant in his art,
Sports with our passions, and commands the heart;
47
And draws at will the captive soul along;
Fixt on the dark event, in ev'ry sense
We feel the pleasing anguish of suspense.
When Homer once has promis'd to rehearse
Bold Paris' fight, in many a sounding verse,
He soon perceives his readers warm desire
Wrapt in th' event, and all his soul on fire;
Then he with art contrives some specious stay,
Before he tells the fortune of the day.
'Till Helen to the king and elders show,
From some tall tow'r, the leaders of the foe,
And name the heroes in the fields below.
When chast Penelope, to gain her end,
Invites her suitors the tough bow to bend;
(Her nuptial bed the victor's promis'd prize)
With what address her various arts she plies?
Skill'd in delays, and politickly slow
To search her treasures for her heroe's bow?
48
None lead the reader in the dark along,
To the last goal that terminates the song.
Sometimes th' event must glance upon the sight,
By a short glimm'ring, and malignant light,
That shifts, and just diversifies the night.
'Tis thus Anchises to his son relates,
The various series of his future fates;
For this the prophets see on Tyber's shore,
Wars, horrid wars, and Latium red with gore,
A new Achilles rising to destroy
With boundless rage, the poor remains of Troy;
But raise his mind with prospects of success,
And give the promise of a lasting peace.
This knew the hero when he sought the plains,
Sprung from his ships, and charg'd th' embattled swains,
Hew'd down the Latian troops with matchless might,
(The first, auspicious omen of the fight,)
And at one blow gigantick Theron kill'd,
Bold, but in vain, and foremost of the field,
Thus too
Patroclus with his latest breath,
Foretold his unregarding victor's death.
His parting soul anticipates the blow,
That waits on Hector from a greater foe.
Thou too poor Turnus, long before thy doom.
Couldst read thy end, and antedate a tomb,
When o'er thy head the baleful fury flew,
And in dire omens set thy fate to view;
A bird obscene, she flutter'd o'er the field,
And scream'd thy death, and beat thy sounding shield
For lo! the time, the fatal time is come,
Charg'd with thy death, and heavy with thy doom,
When Turnus, tho' in vain, shall rue the day;
Shall curse the golden belt he bore away;
Shall wish too late young Pallas' spoils unsought,
And mourn the conquest he so dearly bought.
Th' event should glimmer thro' its gloomy shrowd,
Tho' yet confus'd, and struggling in the cloud.
So, to the trav'ller, as he journeys on
To reach the walls of some far distant town.
If, high in air, the dubious turrets rise,
Peep o'er the hills, and dance before his eyes;
Pleas'd the refreshing prospect to survey,
Each stride he lengthens, and beguiles the way.
More pleas'd, (the tempting scene in view) to goe,
Than pensively to walk the gloomy vales below.
To the last goal that terminates the song.
Sometimes th' event must glance upon the sight,
By a short glimm'ring, and malignant light,
That shifts, and just diversifies the night.
'Tis thus Anchises to his son relates,
The various series of his future fates;
For this the prophets see on Tyber's shore,
Wars, horrid wars, and Latium red with gore,
A new Achilles rising to destroy
With boundless rage, the poor remains of Troy;
But raise his mind with prospects of success,
And give the promise of a lasting peace.
This knew the hero when he sought the plains,
Sprung from his ships, and charg'd th' embattled swains,
Hew'd down the Latian troops with matchless might,
(The first, auspicious omen of the fight,)
And at one blow gigantick Theron kill'd,
Bold, but in vain, and foremost of the field,
49
Foretold his unregarding victor's death.
His parting soul anticipates the blow,
That waits on Hector from a greater foe.
Thou too poor Turnus, long before thy doom.
Couldst read thy end, and antedate a tomb,
When o'er thy head the baleful fury flew,
And in dire omens set thy fate to view;
A bird obscene, she flutter'd o'er the field,
And scream'd thy death, and beat thy sounding shield
For lo! the time, the fatal time is come,
Charg'd with thy death, and heavy with thy doom,
When Turnus, tho' in vain, shall rue the day;
Shall curse the golden belt he bore away;
Shall wish too late young Pallas' spoils unsought,
And mourn the conquest he so dearly bought.
Th' event should glimmer thro' its gloomy shrowd,
Tho' yet confus'd, and struggling in the cloud.
So, to the trav'ller, as he journeys on
To reach the walls of some far distant town.
If, high in air, the dubious turrets rise,
Peep o'er the hills, and dance before his eyes;
50
Each stride he lengthens, and beguiles the way.
More pleas'd, (the tempting scene in view) to goe,
Than pensively to walk the gloomy vales below.
Unless the theme within your bosom roll,
Work in each thought, and run through all the soul;
Unless you alter with incessant pain,
Pull down, and build the fabrick o'er again;
In vain, when rival-wits your wonder raise,
You'll strive to match those beauties which you praise.
Work in each thought, and run through all the soul;
Unless you alter with incessant pain,
Pull down, and build the fabrick o'er again;
In vain, when rival-wits your wonder raise,
You'll strive to match those beauties which you praise.
To one just scope with fixt design go on;
Let sov'reign reason dictate from her throne,
By what determin'd methods to advance,
But never trust to arbitrary chance.
Where chance presides, all objects wildly join'd,
Crowd on the reader, and distract his mind;
From theme to theme unwilling is he tost,
And in the dark variety is lost.
You see some bards, who bold excursions make
In long digressions from the beaten track;
And paint a wild unnecessary throng,
Of things and objects foreign to the song.
For new descriptions from the road depart,
Devoid of order, discipline and art.
So, many an anxious toil and danger past,
Some wretch returns from banishment at last;
With fond delay to range the shady wood,
Now here, now there he wanders from the road;
From field to field, from stream to stream he roves,
And courts the cooling shelter of the groves.
For why should Homer deck the gorgeous car,
When our rais'd souls are eager for the war?
Or dwell on ev'ry wheel, when loud alarms,
And Mars in thunder calls the hosts to arms;
When with his heroes we some dastard find,
Of a vile aspect, and malignant mind;
His awkward figure is not worth our care;
His monstrous length of head, or want of hair.
Tho' the wretch goes with mountain shoulders by,
Short of a foot, or blinking in an eye.
Such trivial objects call us off too long
From the main drift, and tenor of the song.
Drances appears a juster character,
In council bold, but cautious in the war;
Factious and loud the list'ning throng he draws,
And swells with wealth, and popular applause;
But what in our's would never find a place
The bold Greek language may admit with grace.
Let sov'reign reason dictate from her throne,
By what determin'd methods to advance,
But never trust to arbitrary chance.
Where chance presides, all objects wildly join'd,
Crowd on the reader, and distract his mind;
From theme to theme unwilling is he tost,
And in the dark variety is lost.
You see some bards, who bold excursions make
In long digressions from the beaten track;
51
Of things and objects foreign to the song.
For new descriptions from the road depart,
Devoid of order, discipline and art.
So, many an anxious toil and danger past,
Some wretch returns from banishment at last;
With fond delay to range the shady wood,
Now here, now there he wanders from the road;
From field to field, from stream to stream he roves,
And courts the cooling shelter of the groves.
For why should Homer deck the gorgeous car,
When our rais'd souls are eager for the war?
Or dwell on ev'ry wheel, when loud alarms,
And Mars in thunder calls the hosts to arms;
When with his heroes we some dastard find,
Of a vile aspect, and malignant mind;
His awkward figure is not worth our care;
His monstrous length of head, or want of hair.
Tho' the wretch goes with mountain shoulders by,
Short of a foot, or blinking in an eye.
52
From the main drift, and tenor of the song.
Drances appears a juster character,
In council bold, but cautious in the war;
Factious and loud the list'ning throng he draws,
And swells with wealth, and popular applause;
But what in our's would never find a place
The bold Greek language may admit with grace.
Why should I here the stratagems recite,
And the low tricks of every little wit:
Some out of time their stock of knowledge boast,
'Till in the pedant all the bard is lost.
Such without care their useless lumber place;
One black, confus'd, and undigested mass,
With a wild heap encumbers every part,
Nor rang'd with grace, nor methodiz'd with art.
But then in chief, when things abstruse they teach,
Themes too abstracted for the vulgar reach;
The hidden nature of the deities;
The secret laws, and motions of the skies;
Or from what dark original began
The fiery soul; and kindled up the man.
Oft' they in odious instances engage,
And for examples ransack every age,
With every realm; no hero will they pass,
But act against the rules of time and place.
Avoid, ye youths, these practices, nor raise
Your swelling souls to such a thirst of praise.
Some bards of eminence there are, we own,
Who sing sometimes the journeys of the sun,
The rising stars, and labours of the moon:
What impulse bids the ocean rise and fall;
What motions shake, and rock the trembling ball.
Tho' foreign subjects had engag'd their care,
The rage, the din, and thunder of the war,
Thro' the loud field; the genius of the earth;
Or precepts to improve rhe vegetable birth.
Yet 'tis but seldom, and when time and place
Require the thing, and reconcile to grace.
Those foreign objects necessary seem,
And flow, to all appearance, from the theme
With so much art so well conceal'd; they please
When wrought with skill, and introduc'd with ease.
Should not Anchises, such occasion shown,
Resolve the questions of his god-like son?
If souls depriv'd of heav'ns fair light repair
Once more to day, and breath the vital air?
Or if from high Olympus first they came,
Inspir'd with portions of ethereal flame,
Tho' here encumber'd with the mortal frame?
Tire not too long one subject when you write,
For 'tis variety that gives delight;
But when to that variety inclin'd,
You seek new objects to relieve the mind;
Be sure let nothing forc'd or labour'd seem,
But watch your time, and steal from off your theme.
Conceal with care your longing to depart,
For art's chief glory 'tis, to cover art.
So Mulciber in future ages skill'd,
Engrav'd Rome's glories on Æneas' shield,
On the bright orb her future fame enroll'd,
And with her triumphs charg'd the rising gold;
Here figur'd fights the blazing round adorn,
There his long line of heroes yet unborn.
But if a poet of Ausonian birth,
Describes the various kingdoms of the earth,
Wide intersperst; the Medes or swarthy Moors;
The diff'rent natures of their soils explores,
And paints the trees that bloom on India's shores.
Of his own land regardless he appears,
Unless he praise Ausonia to the stars;
To all the rest his country he prefers,
And makes the woods of Bactria yield to her's,
With proud Panchaia; tho' her groves she boasts,
And breathes a cloud of incense from her coasts.
And the low tricks of every little wit:
Some out of time their stock of knowledge boast,
'Till in the pedant all the bard is lost.
Such without care their useless lumber place;
One black, confus'd, and undigested mass,
With a wild heap encumbers every part,
Nor rang'd with grace, nor methodiz'd with art.
But then in chief, when things abstruse they teach,
Themes too abstracted for the vulgar reach;
The hidden nature of the deities;
The secret laws, and motions of the skies;
53
The fiery soul; and kindled up the man.
Oft' they in odious instances engage,
And for examples ransack every age,
With every realm; no hero will they pass,
But act against the rules of time and place.
Avoid, ye youths, these practices, nor raise
Your swelling souls to such a thirst of praise.
Some bards of eminence there are, we own,
Who sing sometimes the journeys of the sun,
The rising stars, and labours of the moon:
What impulse bids the ocean rise and fall;
What motions shake, and rock the trembling ball.
Tho' foreign subjects had engag'd their care,
The rage, the din, and thunder of the war,
Thro' the loud field; the genius of the earth;
Or precepts to improve rhe vegetable birth.
Yet 'tis but seldom, and when time and place
Require the thing, and reconcile to grace.
Those foreign objects necessary seem,
And flow, to all appearance, from the theme
54
When wrought with skill, and introduc'd with ease.
Should not Anchises, such occasion shown,
Resolve the questions of his god-like son?
If souls depriv'd of heav'ns fair light repair
Once more to day, and breath the vital air?
Or if from high Olympus first they came,
Inspir'd with portions of ethereal flame,
Tho' here encumber'd with the mortal frame?
Tire not too long one subject when you write,
For 'tis variety that gives delight;
But when to that variety inclin'd,
You seek new objects to relieve the mind;
Be sure let nothing forc'd or labour'd seem,
But watch your time, and steal from off your theme.
Conceal with care your longing to depart,
For art's chief glory 'tis, to cover art.
So Mulciber in future ages skill'd,
Engrav'd Rome's glories on Æneas' shield,
On the bright orb her future fame enroll'd,
And with her triumphs charg'd the rising gold;
55
There his long line of heroes yet unborn.
But if a poet of Ausonian birth,
Describes the various kingdoms of the earth,
Wide intersperst; the Medes or swarthy Moors;
The diff'rent natures of their soils explores,
And paints the trees that bloom on India's shores.
Of his own land regardless he appears,
Unless he praise Ausonia to the stars;
To all the rest his country he prefers,
And makes the woods of Bactria yield to her's,
With proud Panchaia; tho' her groves she boasts,
And breathes a cloud of incense from her coasts.
Hear then, ye gen'rous youths, on this regard,
I should not blame the conduct of the bard,
Who in soft numbers, and a flowing strain,
Relieves and reconciles our ears again.
When I the various implements had sung
That to the fields, and rural trade belong,
In sweet harmonious measures would I tell
How nature mourn'd when the great Cæsar fell.
When Bacchus' curling vines had grac'd my lays,
The rural pleasures next shou'd share my praise.
The labour ended, and compleat the whole,
Some bards with pleasure wander round the goal,
The flights and sallies of the muse prolong,
And add new beanties to the finisht song;
Pleas'd with th' excursion of the charming strain,
We strive to quit the work, but strive in vain.
Thus, were the bees the subject of my muse,
Their laws, their natures, and cœlestial dews;
Poor Aristæus should his fate disclose,
His mother's counsel should asswage his woes;
Old Proteus here should struggle in his chain,
There in soft verse the Thracian bard complain;
(As Philomela on a poplar's bough,
Bewails her young, melodious in her woe.)
Pangæan steeps his sorrows should return,
And vocal Thrace with Rhodope should mourn,
And groaning Hebrus weep from every urn.
Thus too the poets, who the names declare
Of kings and nations gath'ring to the war,
Sometimes diversifie the strain, and sing
The wondrous change of the Ligurian king.
While for his Phaeton his sorrows flow,
And his harmonious strains beguile his woe,
The snowy feathers steal o'er all the man,
And turn the poet to a tuneful swan.
Thus too Hippolitus by Dian's care,
And Pœan's art returns to upper air.
The bards now paint the arms their heroes wield,
And each bold figure on the glitt'ring sheild.
Fair Aventinus fair Alcides' son,
Wore the proud trophy which his father won;
An hundred serpents o'er the buckler roll'd,
And Hydra hist from all her heads in gold.
Now blooming Tempe's cool retreats they sing,
And now with flow'ry beauties paint the spring.
Now with a sylvan scene the floods they hide;
Or teach the fam'd Eridanus to glide;
Or sport on fabled Achelous' side.
Or hoary Nereus' num'rous race display,
The hundred azure sisters of the sea.
With them the nymphs that haunt their native woods,
And the long orders of the sylvan gods.
I should not blame the conduct of the bard,
Who in soft numbers, and a flowing strain,
Relieves and reconciles our ears again.
When I the various implements had sung
That to the fields, and rural trade belong,
In sweet harmonious measures would I tell
How nature mourn'd when the great Cæsar fell.
56
The rural pleasures next shou'd share my praise.
The labour ended, and compleat the whole,
Some bards with pleasure wander round the goal,
The flights and sallies of the muse prolong,
And add new beanties to the finisht song;
Pleas'd with th' excursion of the charming strain,
We strive to quit the work, but strive in vain.
Thus, were the bees the subject of my muse,
Their laws, their natures, and cœlestial dews;
Poor Aristæus should his fate disclose,
His mother's counsel should asswage his woes;
Old Proteus here should struggle in his chain,
There in soft verse the Thracian bard complain;
(As Philomela on a poplar's bough,
Bewails her young, melodious in her woe.)
Pangæan steeps his sorrows should return,
And vocal Thrace with Rhodope should mourn,
And groaning Hebrus weep from every urn.
Thus too the poets, who the names declare
Of kings and nations gath'ring to the war,
57
The wondrous change of the Ligurian king.
While for his Phaeton his sorrows flow,
And his harmonious strains beguile his woe,
The snowy feathers steal o'er all the man,
And turn the poet to a tuneful swan.
Thus too Hippolitus by Dian's care,
And Pœan's art returns to upper air.
The bards now paint the arms their heroes wield,
And each bold figure on the glitt'ring sheild.
Fair Aventinus fair Alcides' son,
Wore the proud trophy which his father won;
An hundred serpents o'er the buckler roll'd,
And Hydra hist from all her heads in gold.
Now blooming Tempe's cool retreats they sing,
And now with flow'ry beauties paint the spring.
Now with a sylvan scene the floods they hide;
Or teach the fam'd Eridanus to glide;
Or sport on fabled Achelous' side.
Or hoary Nereus' num'rous race display,
The hundred azure sisters of the sea.
58
And the long orders of the sylvan gods.
With gay descriptions sprinkle here and there,
Some grave instructive sentences with care,
That touch on life, some moral good pursue,
And give us virtue in a transient view;
Rules, which the future sire may make his own,
And point the golden precepts to his son.
Some grave instructive sentences with care,
That touch on life, some moral good pursue,
And give us virtue in a transient view;
Rules, which the future sire may make his own,
And point the golden precepts to his son.
Sometimes on little images to fall,
And thus illustrate mighty things by small;
And that with due success the poet dares,
When to the ants the Phrygians he compares,
Who leaving Carthage gather to the seas;
Or the laborious Tyrians to the bees.
But swarms of flies; offensive animals,
That buz incessant o'er the smoaking pails,
Are images too low, to paint the hosts,
That roll, and blacken o'er Ausonia's coasts.
The lofty muse who sung the Latian war,
Would think such trivial things beneath her care;
How from his Majesty would Virgil fall,
If Turnus scarce repell'd from Illion's wall,
Retiring grimly with a tardy pace,
Should then be figur'd by the patient ass,
Whom unregarded troops of boys surround,
While o'er his sides their rattling strokes resound,
Slow he gives way, and crops the springing grain:
Turns on each side, and stops to graze again;
In every point the thing is just, we know,
But then the image is it self too low.
For Turnus sprung from such a glorious race,
Disdains the vile resemblance of an ass.
With better grace the lion you'll apply,
When wrath and courage both forbid to fly;
Tho' not sufficient in himself alone
To fight a multitude oppos'd to one.
And thus illustrate mighty things by small;
And that with due success the poet dares,
When to the ants the Phrygians he compares,
Who leaving Carthage gather to the seas;
Or the laborious Tyrians to the bees.
But swarms of flies; offensive animals,
That buz incessant o'er the smoaking pails,
Are images too low, to paint the hosts,
That roll, and blacken o'er Ausonia's coasts.
The lofty muse who sung the Latian war,
Would think such trivial things beneath her care;
59
If Turnus scarce repell'd from Illion's wall,
Retiring grimly with a tardy pace,
Should then be figur'd by the patient ass,
Whom unregarded troops of boys surround,
While o'er his sides their rattling strokes resound,
Slow he gives way, and crops the springing grain:
Turns on each side, and stops to graze again;
In every point the thing is just, we know,
But then the image is it self too low.
For Turnus sprung from such a glorious race,
Disdains the vile resemblance of an ass.
With better grace the lion you'll apply,
When wrath and courage both forbid to fly;
Tho' not sufficient in himself alone
To fight a multitude oppos'd to one.
Since
fictions are allow'd, besure, ye youths,
Your fictions wear at least the air of truths.
When Glaucus meets Tydides on the plain,
Inflam'd with rage, and reeking from the slain;
Some think they could not pass the time away,
In such long narratives, and cool delay,
Amidst the raging tumult of the day.
But yet we hear fierce Diomed relate,
The crime of bold Lycurgus, and his fate;
And Glaucus talks of brave Bellerophon,
Doom'd for a lawless passion, not his own;
Sets forth the heroe's great exploits to view,
How the bold chief the dire Chimæra slew,
The Solymæan host, and Amazonian crew.
For those surprizing fictions are design'd
With their sweet falshoods to delight the mind;
The bards expect no credit should be giv'n
To the bare lye, tho' authoriz'd by heav'n,
Which oft' with confidence they vent abroad,
Beneath the needful sanction of a god.
'Twas thus the roasted heifers of the sun
Spoke o'er the fire with accents not their own;
'Twas thus Achilles' steed his silence broke,
And Trojan ships in human voices spoke;
As wrought by heav'n these wonders they relate,
All airy visions of the ivory gate.
Your fictions wear at least the air of truths.
When Glaucus meets Tydides on the plain,
Inflam'd with rage, and reeking from the slain;
60
In such long narratives, and cool delay,
Amidst the raging tumult of the day.
But yet we hear fierce Diomed relate,
The crime of bold Lycurgus, and his fate;
And Glaucus talks of brave Bellerophon,
Doom'd for a lawless passion, not his own;
Sets forth the heroe's great exploits to view,
How the bold chief the dire Chimæra slew,
The Solymæan host, and Amazonian crew.
For those surprizing fictions are design'd
With their sweet falshoods to delight the mind;
The bards expect no credit should be giv'n
To the bare lye, tho' authoriz'd by heav'n,
Which oft' with confidence they vent abroad,
Beneath the needful sanction of a god.
'Twas thus the roasted heifers of the sun
Spoke o'er the fire with accents not their own;
'Twas thus Achilles' steed his silence broke,
And Trojan ships in human voices spoke;
61
All airy visions of the ivory gate.
Speak things but once if order be your care,
For more the cloy'd attention will not bear,
And tedious repetitions fire the ear.
In this we differ from the Grecian train,
Who tell Atrides' visions o'er again.
'Tis not enough with them to tell the cause
Why great Achilles from the war withdraws,
Unless the weeping hero on the shore,
Tells his blue mother all we heard before.
So much on punctual niceties they stand,
That when their kings dispatch some high command,
All, word for word, the Embassadors rehearse
In the same tenor of unvaried verse.
Not so did Venulus from Arpi bring
The final answer of th' Ætolian king.
For more the cloy'd attention will not bear,
And tedious repetitions fire the ear.
In this we differ from the Grecian train,
Who tell Atrides' visions o'er again.
'Tis not enough with them to tell the cause
Why great Achilles from the war withdraws,
Unless the weeping hero on the shore,
Tells his blue mother all we heard before.
So much on punctual niceties they stand,
That when their kings dispatch some high command,
All, word for word, the Embassadors rehearse
In the same tenor of unvaried verse.
Not so did Venulus from Arpi bring
The final answer of th' Ætolian king.
Let others labour on a vast design,
A less, but polisht with due care, be thine.
To change its structure be your last delight;
Thus spend the day, and exercise the night.
Incessant in your toil, but if you choose
A larger field and subject for your muse;
If scanty limits should the theme confine,
Learn with just art to lengthen the design
Beyond its native bounds; the roving mind
A thousand methods to this end may find;
Un-number'd fictions may with truths be join'd.
Nature supplies a fund of matter still;
Then cull the rich variety at will.
See how the bard calls down th' embattled gods,
All rang'd in factions from their bright abodes;
Who fir'd with mutual hate their arms employ,
And in the field declare for Greece or Troy;
'Till Jove convenes a council to asswage
Their rising fury, and suspend their rage;
Tho' the blest gods, remov'd from human eyes,
Live in immortal ease within the distant skies.
And now th' infernal realm his theme he makes,
The reign of Pluto, the Tartarean lakes,
The furies dreadful with their curling snakes
He gathers omens from each bird that flies,
And signs from ev'ry wing that beats the skies.
He now describes a banquet where the guest
Prolongs with narratives the royal feast.
Or at the glorious hero's tomb we read
Of games ordain'd in honour of the dead.
And oft for mercies in old times displaid
To their own gods their annual rites are paid.
For monstrous Python slain, their praises rise,
And lift the fame of Phœbus to the skies.
In hymns Alcides' labours they resound,
While Cacus lies extended on the ground,
Alternate sing the labours of his hands,
Enjoin'd by first Eurysteus' stern commands;
The den of Cacus crowns the grateful strain,
Where the grim monster breathes his flames in vain.
A less, but polisht with due care, be thine.
62
Thus spend the day, and exercise the night.
Incessant in your toil, but if you choose
A larger field and subject for your muse;
If scanty limits should the theme confine,
Learn with just art to lengthen the design
Beyond its native bounds; the roving mind
A thousand methods to this end may find;
Un-number'd fictions may with truths be join'd.
Nature supplies a fund of matter still;
Then cull the rich variety at will.
See how the bard calls down th' embattled gods,
All rang'd in factions from their bright abodes;
Who fir'd with mutual hate their arms employ,
And in the field declare for Greece or Troy;
'Till Jove convenes a council to asswage
Their rising fury, and suspend their rage;
Tho' the blest gods, remov'd from human eyes,
Live in immortal ease within the distant skies.
And now th' infernal realm his theme he makes,
The reign of Pluto, the Tartarean lakes,
The furies dreadful with their curling snakes
63
And signs from ev'ry wing that beats the skies.
He now describes a banquet where the guest
Prolongs with narratives the royal feast.
Or at the glorious hero's tomb we read
Of games ordain'd in honour of the dead.
And oft for mercies in old times displaid
To their own gods their annual rites are paid.
For monstrous Python slain, their praises rise,
And lift the fame of Phœbus to the skies.
In hymns Alcides' labours they resound,
While Cacus lies extended on the ground,
Alternate sing the labours of his hands,
Enjoin'd by first Eurysteus' stern commands;
The den of Cacus crowns the grateful strain,
Where the grim monster breathes his flames in vain.
Mark how sometimes the bard without controul,
Exerts his fire, and pours forth all his soul,
His lines so daring, and his words so strong,
We see the subject figur'd in the song.
When with the winds old
Ocean he deforms,
Or paints the rage, and horrors of the storms,
Or drives on pointed rocks the bursting ships,
Tost on the Euxine, or Sicilian deeps.
Or sings the plagues that blast the livid sky,
When beasts by herds, and men by nations dye;
Or the fierce flames that out of Ætna rise,
When from her mouth the bursting vapour flies,
And charg'd with ruin thunders to the skies.
While drifts of smoak in sooty whirlwinds play,
And clouds of cinders stain the golden day.
See! as the poet sounds the dire alarms,
Calls on the war, and sets the hoasts in arms;
Squadrons on squadrons driven, confus'dly dye;
Grim Mars in all his terrors strikes the eye;
More than description rising to the sight,
Presents the real horrors of the fight;
A new creation seems our praise to claim;
(Hence Greece derives the sacred poet's name;
The dreadful clang of clashing arms we hear;
The agonizing groan, the fruitless pray'r,
And shrieks of suppliants thicken on the ear.
Who, when he reads a city storm'd, forbears
To feel her woes, and sympathize in tears?
When o'er the palaces the flames aspire
From wall to wall, and wrap the domes in fire.
The sire, with years and hostile rage opprest!
The starting infant, clinging to the breast!
The trembling mother runs, with piercing cries
Thro' friends and foes, and shrieking rends the skies.
Drag'd from the altar, the distracted fair,
Beats her white breast, and tears her golden hair.
Here in thick crowds the vanquisht fly away,
There the proud victors heap the wealthy prey;
With rage relentless ravage their abodes,
Nor spare the sacred temples of the gods.
O'er the whole town they run with wild affright,
Tumultuous haste, and violence of flight.
Exerts his fire, and pours forth all his soul,
His lines so daring, and his words so strong,
We see the subject figur'd in the song.
64
Or paints the rage, and horrors of the storms,
Or drives on pointed rocks the bursting ships,
Tost on the Euxine, or Sicilian deeps.
Or sings the plagues that blast the livid sky,
When beasts by herds, and men by nations dye;
Or the fierce flames that out of Ætna rise,
When from her mouth the bursting vapour flies,
And charg'd with ruin thunders to the skies.
While drifts of smoak in sooty whirlwinds play,
And clouds of cinders stain the golden day.
See! as the poet sounds the dire alarms,
Calls on the war, and sets the hoasts in arms;
Squadrons on squadrons driven, confus'dly dye;
Grim Mars in all his terrors strikes the eye;
More than description rising to the sight,
Presents the real horrors of the fight;
A new creation seems our praise to claim;
(Hence Greece derives the sacred poet's name;
65
The agonizing groan, the fruitless pray'r,
And shrieks of suppliants thicken on the ear.
Who, when he reads a city storm'd, forbears
To feel her woes, and sympathize in tears?
When o'er the palaces the flames aspire
From wall to wall, and wrap the domes in fire.
The sire, with years and hostile rage opprest!
The starting infant, clinging to the breast!
The trembling mother runs, with piercing cries
Thro' friends and foes, and shrieking rends the skies.
Drag'd from the altar, the distracted fair,
Beats her white breast, and tears her golden hair.
Here in thick crowds the vanquisht fly away,
There the proud victors heap the wealthy prey;
With rage relentless ravage their abodes,
Nor spare the sacred temples of the gods.
O'er the whole town they run with wild affright,
Tumultuous haste, and violence of flight.
Why should I mention how our souls aspire,
Lost in the raptures of the sacred fire?
For ev'n the soul not always holds the same,
But knows at diff'rent times, a diff'rent frame.
Whether with rolling seasons she complies,
Turns with the sun, or changes with the skies.
Or thro' long toil, remissive of her fires,
Droops with the mortal frame her force inspires.
Or that our minds alternately appear
Now bright with joy, and now o'er-cast with care.
The gods, the gods much rather must supply
The glorious fires; they speak the deity.
Then blest is he who waits th' auspicious nod,
The warmth divine, and presence of the god;
Who his suspended labours can restrain,
'Till heav'ns serene indulgence smile again.
But strive, on no pretence, against your pow'r,
'Till time brings back the voluntary hour.
Sometimes their verdant honours leave the woods,
And their dry urns defraud the thirsty floods;
Nor rivers always a full channel yield,
Nor spring with flow'ry beauties paints the field;
The bards no less such fickle changes find,
Dampt is the noble ardor of the mind;
Their wonted toil her wearied pow'rs refuse;
Their souls grow slack and languid to the muse,
Deaf to their call; their efforts are withstood;
Round their cold hearts congeals the freezing blood.
You'd think the muses fled; the god no more
Would fire the bosom where he dwelt before,
How often, ah! how often, tho' in vain
The poet would renew the wonted strain!
Nor sees the gods who thwart his fruitless care,
Nor angry heav'n relentless to his pray'r.
Some read the antient bards, of deathless fame,
And from their raptures catch the noble flame,
By just degrees; they feed the glowing vein;
And all th' immortal ardor burns again
In its full light and heat; the sun's bright ray
Thus, (when the clouds disperse) restores the day:
Whence shot this sudden flash that gilds the pole?
The god, the god comes rushing on his soul;
Fires with æthereal vigor ev'ry part,
Thro' ev'ry trembling limb he seems to dart,
Works in each vein, and swells his rising heart.
Deep in his breast the heav'nly tumult plays,
And sets his mounting spirits on a blaze.
Nor can the raging flames themselves contain,
For the whole god descends into the man.
He quits mortality; he knows no bounds;
But sings inspir'd in more than human sounds.
Nor from his breast can shake th' immortal load,
But pants and raves impatient of the God;
And rapt beyond himself admires the force
That drives him on reluctant to the course.
He calls on Phœbus by the god opprest,
Who breaths excessive spirit in his breast;
No force of thirst or hunger can controul
The fierce, the ruling transport of his soul.
Oft' in their sleep inflam'd with rage divine,
Some bards enjoy the visions of the nine;
Visions! Themselves with due applause may crown,
And ev'n Apollo would not blush to own.
To such an height the god exalts the flame,
And so unbounded is their thirst of fame;
But here, ye youths, exert your timely care,
Nor trust th' ungovernable rage too far;
Use not your fortune, nor unfurl your sails,
Tho' call'd, tho' courted by the flatt'ring gales,
Refuse them still; and call your judgment in,
While the fierce god exults and reigns within,
To reason's standard be your thoughts confin'd,
Let reason rule the sallies of the mind.
Indulge your heat with conduct, and restrain,
Learn when to draw, and when to give the rein.
But always wait, 'till the warm raptures cease,
And lull the tumults of the soul to peace;
Then, nor 'till then, examine strictly o'er
What your wild sallies might suggest before.
Lost in the raptures of the sacred fire?
66
But knows at diff'rent times, a diff'rent frame.
Whether with rolling seasons she complies,
Turns with the sun, or changes with the skies.
Or thro' long toil, remissive of her fires,
Droops with the mortal frame her force inspires.
Or that our minds alternately appear
Now bright with joy, and now o'er-cast with care.
The gods, the gods much rather must supply
The glorious fires; they speak the deity.
Then blest is he who waits th' auspicious nod,
The warmth divine, and presence of the god;
Who his suspended labours can restrain,
'Till heav'ns serene indulgence smile again.
But strive, on no pretence, against your pow'r,
'Till time brings back the voluntary hour.
Sometimes their verdant honours leave the woods,
And their dry urns defraud the thirsty floods;
Nor rivers always a full channel yield,
Nor spring with flow'ry beauties paints the field;
The bards no less such fickle changes find,
Dampt is the noble ardor of the mind;
67
Their souls grow slack and languid to the muse,
Deaf to their call; their efforts are withstood;
Round their cold hearts congeals the freezing blood.
You'd think the muses fled; the god no more
Would fire the bosom where he dwelt before,
How often, ah! how often, tho' in vain
The poet would renew the wonted strain!
Nor sees the gods who thwart his fruitless care,
Nor angry heav'n relentless to his pray'r.
Some read the antient bards, of deathless fame,
And from their raptures catch the noble flame,
By just degrees; they feed the glowing vein;
And all th' immortal ardor burns again
In its full light and heat; the sun's bright ray
Thus, (when the clouds disperse) restores the day:
Whence shot this sudden flash that gilds the pole?
The god, the god comes rushing on his soul;
Fires with æthereal vigor ev'ry part,
Thro' ev'ry trembling limb he seems to dart,
Works in each vein, and swells his rising heart.
68
And sets his mounting spirits on a blaze.
Nor can the raging flames themselves contain,
For the whole god descends into the man.
He quits mortality; he knows no bounds;
But sings inspir'd in more than human sounds.
Nor from his breast can shake th' immortal load,
But pants and raves impatient of the God;
And rapt beyond himself admires the force
That drives him on reluctant to the course.
He calls on Phœbus by the god opprest,
Who breaths excessive spirit in his breast;
No force of thirst or hunger can controul
The fierce, the ruling transport of his soul.
Oft' in their sleep inflam'd with rage divine,
Some bards enjoy the visions of the nine;
Visions! Themselves with due applause may crown,
And ev'n Apollo would not blush to own.
To such an height the god exalts the flame,
And so unbounded is their thirst of fame;
But here, ye youths, exert your timely care,
Nor trust th' ungovernable rage too far;
69
Tho' call'd, tho' courted by the flatt'ring gales,
Refuse them still; and call your judgment in,
While the fierce god exults and reigns within,
To reason's standard be your thoughts confin'd,
Let reason rule the sallies of the mind.
Indulge your heat with conduct, and restrain,
Learn when to draw, and when to give the rein.
But always wait, 'till the warm raptures cease,
And lull the tumults of the soul to peace;
Then, nor 'till then, examine strictly o'er
What your wild sallies might suggest before.
Be sure, from nature never to depart;
To copy nature is the task of art.
The noblest poets own her sov'reign sway,
And always follow where she leads the way.
From her the diff'rent characters they trace,
That mark the human or the salvage race,
Each various and distinct; in every stage
They paint mankind; their humours, sex, and age;
They shew what manners the slow sage become,
What the brisk youth in all his sprightly bloom.
In ev'ry word and sentiment explain,
How the proud monarch differs from the swain.
I nauseate all confounded characters,
Where young Telemachus too grave appears,
Or reverend Nestor acts beneath his years.
The poet suits his speeches, when he sings,
To proper persons, and the state of things;
On each their just distinctions are bestow'd,
To mark a male, a female, or a god;
Thus when in Heav'n seditious tumults rise,
Amougst the radiant senate of the skies,
The sire of gods, and sov'reign of mankind,
In a few words unfolds his sacred mind;
No so fair Venus; who at large replies,
And pities Troy, and counts her miseries,
Woes undeserv'd; but with contention fir'd,
And with the spirit of revenge inspir'd,
Fierce Juno storms amidst the blest abodes,
And stuns with loud complaints the list'ning gods.
When youthful Turnus the stern combat claims,
His heart beats courage, and his soul's in flames,
Impell'd by rage, and bent to prove his might,
His soul springs forward, and prevents the fight;
Rouz'd to revenge, his kindling spirits glow,
Confirm his challenge, and provoke the foe,
The fugitive of Troy.—But while his rage
And youthful courage prompts him to engage;
On Latium's king incumbent it appears,
Grown old in prudence, piety, and years,
To weigh events, and youthful heat asswage,
With the cold caution, and the fears of age.
In Dido's various character is seen,
The furious lover, and the gracious queen;
When Troy's fam'd chief commanded from above,
Prepares to quit her kingdom, and her love;
She raves, she storms with unavailing care.
Grown wild with grief, and frentick with despair.
Thro' every street she flies, with anguish stung,
And broken accents flutter on her tongue,
Her words confus'd, and interrupted flow;
Speak and express the hurry of her woe.
Ah! How is Dido, in that Dido lost,
Who late receiv'd the Trojans on her coast,
And bad them banish grief, and share her throne,
Dismiss their fears, and think her realms their own?
To copy nature is the task of art.
The noblest poets own her sov'reign sway,
And always follow where she leads the way.
From her the diff'rent characters they trace,
That mark the human or the salvage race,
Each various and distinct; in every stage
They paint mankind; their humours, sex, and age;
70
What the brisk youth in all his sprightly bloom.
In ev'ry word and sentiment explain,
How the proud monarch differs from the swain.
I nauseate all confounded characters,
Where young Telemachus too grave appears,
Or reverend Nestor acts beneath his years.
The poet suits his speeches, when he sings,
To proper persons, and the state of things;
On each their just distinctions are bestow'd,
To mark a male, a female, or a god;
Thus when in Heav'n seditious tumults rise,
Amougst the radiant senate of the skies,
The sire of gods, and sov'reign of mankind,
In a few words unfolds his sacred mind;
No so fair Venus; who at large replies,
And pities Troy, and counts her miseries,
Woes undeserv'd; but with contention fir'd,
And with the spirit of revenge inspir'd,
71
And stuns with loud complaints the list'ning gods.
When youthful Turnus the stern combat claims,
His heart beats courage, and his soul's in flames,
Impell'd by rage, and bent to prove his might,
His soul springs forward, and prevents the fight;
Rouz'd to revenge, his kindling spirits glow,
Confirm his challenge, and provoke the foe,
The fugitive of Troy.—But while his rage
And youthful courage prompts him to engage;
On Latium's king incumbent it appears,
Grown old in prudence, piety, and years,
To weigh events, and youthful heat asswage,
With the cold caution, and the fears of age.
In Dido's various character is seen,
The furious lover, and the gracious queen;
When Troy's fam'd chief commanded from above,
Prepares to quit her kingdom, and her love;
She raves, she storms with unavailing care.
Grown wild with grief, and frentick with despair.
72
And broken accents flutter on her tongue,
Her words confus'd, and interrupted flow;
Speak and express the hurry of her woe.
Ah! How is Dido, in that Dido lost,
Who late receiv'd the Trojans on her coast,
And bad them banish grief, and share her throne,
Dismiss their fears, and think her realms their own?
Next the great orators consult, and thence
Draw all the moving turns of eloquence;
That Sinon may his Phrygian foes betray,
And lead the crowd, as fraud directs the way;
That wise Ulysses may the Greeks detain,
While Troy yet stood, from meas'ring back the main;
Need I name Nestor, who could talk to peace,
With melting words, the factious kings of Greece;
Whose soft address their fury could controul,
Mould every passion, and subdue the soul!
These soothing arts to
Venus sure were known,
To beg immortal arms, to grace her son;
Her injur'd spouse each thrilling word inspires,
With every pang of love to second her desires.
With nicest art the fair adult'ress draws
Her fond addresses from a distant cause;
And all her guileful accents are design'd
To catch his passions, and ensnare his mind.
'Tis hence the poet learns in every part,
To bend the soul, and give with wondrous art
A thousand diff'rent motions to the heart.
Hence, as his subject gay or sad appears,
He claims our joy, or triumphs in our tears;
Who, when he sees how Orpheus' sorrows flow,
Weeps not his tears, and answers woe for woe?
When he his dear Euridice deplores,
To the deaf rocks, and solitary shores;
With the soft harp the bard relieves his pain,
For thee, when morning dawns, prolongs the strain,
For thee, when Phœbus seeks the seas again.
Or when the young
Euryalus is kill'd,
And rolls in death along the bloody field;
Like some fair flow'r beneath the share he lies,
His head declin'd, and drooping as he dies;
The reader's soul is touch'd with gen'rous woe,
And longs to rush with Nisus on the Foe;
He burns with friendly pity to the dead,
To raise the youth, and prop his sinking head;
And strives in vain to stop the gushing blood,
That stains his bosom with a purple flood.
Draw all the moving turns of eloquence;
That Sinon may his Phrygian foes betray,
And lead the crowd, as fraud directs the way;
That wise Ulysses may the Greeks detain,
While Troy yet stood, from meas'ring back the main;
Need I name Nestor, who could talk to peace,
With melting words, the factious kings of Greece;
Whose soft address their fury could controul,
Mould every passion, and subdue the soul!
73
To beg immortal arms, to grace her son;
Her injur'd spouse each thrilling word inspires,
With every pang of love to second her desires.
With nicest art the fair adult'ress draws
Her fond addresses from a distant cause;
And all her guileful accents are design'd
To catch his passions, and ensnare his mind.
'Tis hence the poet learns in every part,
To bend the soul, and give with wondrous art
A thousand diff'rent motions to the heart.
Hence, as his subject gay or sad appears,
He claims our joy, or triumphs in our tears;
Who, when he sees how Orpheus' sorrows flow,
Weeps not his tears, and answers woe for woe?
When he his dear Euridice deplores,
To the deaf rocks, and solitary shores;
With the soft harp the bard relieves his pain,
For thee, when morning dawns, prolongs the strain,
For thee, when Phœbus seeks the seas again.
74
And rolls in death along the bloody field;
Like some fair flow'r beneath the share he lies,
His head declin'd, and drooping as he dies;
The reader's soul is touch'd with gen'rous woe,
And longs to rush with Nisus on the Foe;
He burns with friendly pity to the dead,
To raise the youth, and prop his sinking head;
And strives in vain to stop the gushing blood,
That stains his bosom with a purple flood.
But if the bard such images pursues,
That raise the blushes of the virgin-muse;
Let them be slightly touch'd, and ne'er exprest,
Give but an hint, and let us guess the rest;
If Jove commands the gath'ring storms to rise,
And with deep thunders rends the vaulted skies,
In the same cave together may be seen
The Trojan hero, and the Tyrian queen;
The poet's modesty must add no more;
Enough, that earth had giv'n the sign before;
The conscious Æther was with flames o'erspread,
The nymphs ran shrieking round the mountain's head;
Nor let young Troilus, unhappy boy,
Meet fierce Achilles' in the plains of Troy;
But shew th' unequal youth's untimely fall,
To great Æneas on the Tyrian wall;
Supine and hanging from his empty ear,
Drag'd by his panting coursers thro' the war.
This, from our bright examples you may trace,
To write with judgment, decency and grace;
From others learn invention to increase,
And search in chief the glorious sons of Greece;
For her bright treasures Argos' realms explore,
Bring home triumphant all her gather'd store,
And with her spoils enrich the Latian shore.
Nor is the glory of translation less,
To give the Grecian bards a Roman dress;
If Phœbus' gracious smiles the labour crown,
Than if some new invention were your own.
Mincio's and Manto's glorious son behold;
Th' immortal Virgil sheath'd in foreign gold,
Shines out unsham'd, and tow'rs above the rest,
In the rich spoils of godlike Homer drest;
Let Greece in triumph boast that she imparts
To Latium's conq'ring realms her glorious arts;
While Latium's sons improve her best designs,
Till by degrees each polisht labour shines,
While Rome advances now in arts, as far
Above all cities, as of old in war.
That raise the blushes of the virgin-muse;
Let them be slightly touch'd, and ne'er exprest,
Give but an hint, and let us guess the rest;
If Jove commands the gath'ring storms to rise,
And with deep thunders rends the vaulted skies,
In the same cave together may be seen
The Trojan hero, and the Tyrian queen;
The poet's modesty must add no more;
Enough, that earth had giv'n the sign before;
75
The nymphs ran shrieking round the mountain's head;
Nor let young Troilus, unhappy boy,
Meet fierce Achilles' in the plains of Troy;
But shew th' unequal youth's untimely fall,
To great Æneas on the Tyrian wall;
Supine and hanging from his empty ear,
Drag'd by his panting coursers thro' the war.
This, from our bright examples you may trace,
To write with judgment, decency and grace;
From others learn invention to increase,
And search in chief the glorious sons of Greece;
For her bright treasures Argos' realms explore,
Bring home triumphant all her gather'd store,
And with her spoils enrich the Latian shore.
Nor is the glory of translation less,
To give the Grecian bards a Roman dress;
If Phœbus' gracious smiles the labour crown,
Than if some new invention were your own.
Mincio's and Manto's glorious son behold;
Th' immortal Virgil sheath'd in foreign gold,
76
In the rich spoils of godlike Homer drest;
Let Greece in triumph boast that she imparts
To Latium's conq'ring realms her glorious arts;
While Latium's sons improve her best designs,
Till by degrees each polisht labour shines,
While Rome advances now in arts, as far
Above all cities, as of old in war.
Ye gods of Rome, ye guardian Deities,
Who lift our nation's glory to the skies;
And thou, Apollo, the great source of Troy,
Let Rome at least this single palm enjoy,
To shine in arts supreme, as once in pow'r,
And teach the nations she subdu'd before;
Since discord all Ausonia's kings alarms,
And clouds the antient glories of her arms.
In our own breasts we sheath the civil sword,
Our country naked to a foreign lord;
Which lately prostrate, started from despair,
Burn'd with new hopes, and arm'd her hands for war;
But arm'd in vain;—th' inexorable hate
Of envious fortune call'd her to her fate,
Insatiate in her rage; her frowns oppose
The Latian fame, and heap on woes on woes.
Our dread alarms each foreign monarch took,
Thro' all their tribes the distant nations shook;
To earth's last bounds the fame of Leo runs,
Nile heard, and Indus trembled for his sons.
Arabia heard the Medicean line,
The first of men, and sprung from race divine.
The sovereign priest, and mitred king appears
With his lov'd Julius join'd, who kindly shares
The reins of empire, and the publick cares.
To break their country's chains, the gen'rous pair
Concert their schemes, and meditate the war.
On Leo Enrope's monarchs turn their eyes,
On him alone the western world relies;
And each bold chief attends his dread alarms,
While the proud crescent fades before his arms.
High on his splendid car, immortal Rome,
Thine eyes had seen the holy warrior come,
Lord of the vanquish'd world, in triumph home.
Thy streams, old Tyber, swell'd with conscious pride,
Had born thy kindred warriour down thy tide;
While crowded up in heaps thy waves admire,
The captive nations, and their strange attire;
Behind his wheels should march a num'rous train
Of scepter'd slaves reluctant to the chain;
Forget their haughty threats; and boast in vain.
Tho' the proud foe, of Jury's realm possest,
Now spreads his wide dominion thro' the east;
Sees his dread standard there at large unfurl'd,
And grasps in thought the empire of the world;
And now (ye gods) increast in barb'rous pow'r,
His armies hover o'er th' Hesperian shore.
To see the passing pomp, the ravisht throng
Thro' every street should flow in tides along;
The sacred father, as the numbers roll'd,
Should his dear citizens again behold,
High o'er the shouting crouds enthron'd in gold;
Should shew the trophies of his glorious toils,
And hang the shrines with consecrated spoils.
Piles of Barbarick gold should glitter there,
The wealth of kingdoms, and the pomp of war;
But, by your crime, ye god;, our hopes are crost,
And those imaginary triumphs lost;
Inter'd with Leo, in one fatal hour,
Our prospects perish'd, as they liv'd before.
Who lift our nation's glory to the skies;
And thou, Apollo, the great source of Troy,
Let Rome at least this single palm enjoy,
To shine in arts supreme, as once in pow'r,
And teach the nations she subdu'd before;
Since discord all Ausonia's kings alarms,
And clouds the antient glories of her arms.
In our own breasts we sheath the civil sword,
Our country naked to a foreign lord;
Which lately prostrate, started from despair,
Burn'd with new hopes, and arm'd her hands for war;
77
Of envious fortune call'd her to her fate,
Insatiate in her rage; her frowns oppose
The Latian fame, and heap on woes on woes.
Our dread alarms each foreign monarch took,
Thro' all their tribes the distant nations shook;
To earth's last bounds the fame of Leo runs,
Nile heard, and Indus trembled for his sons.
Arabia heard the Medicean line,
The first of men, and sprung from race divine.
The sovereign priest, and mitred king appears
With his lov'd Julius join'd, who kindly shares
The reins of empire, and the publick cares.
To break their country's chains, the gen'rous pair
Concert their schemes, and meditate the war.
On Leo Enrope's monarchs turn their eyes,
On him alone the western world relies;
And each bold chief attends his dread alarms,
While the proud crescent fades before his arms.
High on his splendid car, immortal Rome,
Thine eyes had seen the holy warrior come,
Lord of the vanquish'd world, in triumph home.
78
Had born thy kindred warriour down thy tide;
While crowded up in heaps thy waves admire,
The captive nations, and their strange attire;
Behind his wheels should march a num'rous train
Of scepter'd slaves reluctant to the chain;
Forget their haughty threats; and boast in vain.
Tho' the proud foe, of Jury's realm possest,
Now spreads his wide dominion thro' the east;
Sees his dread standard there at large unfurl'd,
And grasps in thought the empire of the world;
And now (ye gods) increast in barb'rous pow'r,
His armies hover o'er th' Hesperian shore.
To see the passing pomp, the ravisht throng
Thro' every street should flow in tides along;
The sacred father, as the numbers roll'd,
Should his dear citizens again behold,
High o'er the shouting crouds enthron'd in gold;
Should shew the trophies of his glorious toils,
And hang the shrines with consecrated spoils.
79
The wealth of kingdoms, and the pomp of war;
But, by your crime, ye god;, our hopes are crost,
And those imaginary triumphs lost;
Inter'd with Leo, in one fatal hour,
Our prospects perish'd, as they liv'd before.
The End of the Second BOOK.
| Vida's Art of Poetry | |